


But I See You

by RavenXavier



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2532755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/pseuds/RavenXavier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not easy being a Seer in the modern times, especially when they are so many of them promising you happiness and good fortune at every corner of the street. Contrary to most though, Grantaire is the True Deal, which means that not only does she get a lot of visions (that aren't always nice), she also needs an Anchor, otherwise she’ll end up mad.</p>
<p> It’s not until she begins to run out of time that she actually meets hers. Unfortunately, her Anchor is a passionate blond activist that doesn't believe in Seers or Fate, and doesn't have time to take care of a woman she barely knows and doesn't like much (especially as she has some personal problems of her own to deal with).</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I See You

**Author's Note:**

> So, I promised myself that I would _not_ show all of my insecurities, so I'll just say this: this is the first time I manage to write such a long story in English (yay!) and I really hope you guys will like it!
> 
> This Big Bang has been full of so many wonderful stories, I'm really glad I got to participate in this little adventure, no matter how stressful it made me ^^ 
> 
> This story would not be here today without the eternal patience, encouragements and general help of [ Chloé ](http://sceptiqueveille.tumblr.com), so thank you so, so, much, you're the best. 
> 
> The title of this story come from the song of Mika named "I see you" which... is not actually super applicable at the story here apart in the literal sense, but it generally gives me a lot of pining!grantaire feelings so.

**Part I - Through the eyes of another**

 

There is a little bell ringing when Courfeyrac opens the door of _Le Temple de Delphes,_ the seer shop where her friend Bossuet works. It’s the first time Courfeyrac is coming to see him, and she has to admit that she hadn’t expected... _that_.

_Le temple de Delphes_ is in one of those typical little streets of Paris where no cars or bus can hope to pass, in between a hairdresser’s salon and a Kebab restaurant. The name of the shop is written in big, green cursive letters, and it would be really pretty except the paint is fading, and some letters are almost completely erased.

The inside isn’t much better, if she’s being completely honest. The little room in which she enters looks like the lobby of a dentist. There are chairs scattered all around, a little table with magazines dating from 2010 in a corner, and, in the back, two closed doors; one simply decorated with a large, red warning sign saying “private” and the other painted in light blue, with a capital R calligraphed in the center. The only esoteric things Courfeyrac can see are a picture of a woman meditating with her three eyes closed, which is hanging on the wall, a fountain in the form of Buddha put next to the magazines table, and a round-shaped, glittery radio playing sickly soft music that’s just loud enough to cut the sounds of the exterior.

Courfeyrac can’t help but be the tiniest bit disappointed. She’s never been in a seer shop before - mostly because she’s never found the time, but also because she isn’t really keen on losing a great deal of money just to hear that her life is going to be filled with happiness, love and success (she can say that herself) - but she had some _expectations._ Seers are such a big part of European Culture, you are bound to have ideas about them, believer or not. Besides, isn’t it in the interest of Seers to make their shop look as magical as possible?

“Courfeyrac!”

Courfeyrac forgets her initial thoughts to grin at Bossuet, who just came out of the “private” door, but then pauses a second as she takes in his outfit. He’s wearing a ridiculous purple robe that falls to his feet and a tee-shirt underneath proclaiming: “I am the priest of this temple”. The worse, though, is perhaps the wig hiding his bald head, made of dark thick curls. Courfeyrac doesn’t restrain her laughter, but Bossuet doesn’t look bothered at all. He smiles widely at her like he knows exactly what she’s thinking.

“Believe it or not,” he says cheerfully, “I’d much rather dress like that for the rest of my life than wear anything resembling a lawyer suit.”

“Oh, I believe that alright,” Courfeyrac snickers. “God, do you really greet all your customers like that?”

“Sometimes,” Bossuet shrugs. “Only when R’s in the mood, really - I mean, what’s the point of the secretary wearing the costume if the Seer isn’t wearing one too? We used to do that every day when we opened the shop, but now it’s only for our best clients. Or the nuts ones.”

“I’m flattered,” Courfeyrac says, amused.

“You’re still up for knowing your Future, then?” Bossuet asks. “Free for you, of course.”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac says agreeably, because, well, it’s _free,_ and she is curious about that seer friend of Bossuet - the way he talks about her is always so serious. She wouldn’t have pegged Bossuet as a Seer believer, but apparently he does believe in this one in particular, and that’s enough for Courfeyrac to be intrigued. Besides… “Combeferre wanted to come with me, actually, and she was really sad she couldn’t. I’ve been asked to make a full report when we’re done. She wouldn’t forgive me if I told her I didn’t do it.”

“Well, if _Combeferre_ asked you to then,” Bossuet grins knowingly, and Courfeyrac flushes. “Anyway, ground rules: the Future isn’t _always_ happy, and our Seer isn’t fucking responsible if what she tells you doesn’t suit what you want to hear. You won’t have your money back if she announces you your pet is going to die. If you want to believe life is great and your future even greater, go see somebody else and leave her the fuck alone.”

The way Bossuet says it, it’s clear that the speech isn’t new and has been rehearsed a numerous amount of time. Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, fully entertained.

“How original,” she says appreciatively. “Well, consider me warned - I don’t have any pets anyway.”

Bossuet laughs and then waves at the blue door enthusiastically. “Go on then. The Future awaits!”

Courfeyrac can’t help but snorts again at his antics, but obediently goes to the blue door. She doesn’t know if she should knock but decides quickly not to - Bossuet hasn’t said anything about that and, anyway, anyone proclaiming they’re a Seer should be able at the very least not to be surprised when someone enters in a room they’re in. Once she’s inside, she closes the door again, and her eyes immediately fall on the woman lying on the red velvet couch that takes half of the room.

“You’re Bossuet’s friend, right?” The woman says, raising blue eyes to her immediately.

“That’s me, yes,” Courfeyrac says. “Hello.”

“Great,” The woman says, rising up slowly. “When you go out after this, would it bother you to lie to him and say that I put the big show for you? He really wanted to impress you, but I didn’t feel like sitting on the rock and a robe that’s far too hot to wear for the season. Also the green wig is really awful..”

“I’ll do that,” Courfeyrac says, trying to imagine what she would have done if the woman had decided to put on the show instead and failing to see another outcome than dying of laughter. “So, what should I do? Are you going to read me the cards?”

The woman scoffs: “No. Go sit in the chair in front of you for now.”

Courfeyrac obeys and sats on the chair which is next to an untidy table. She takes the opportunity to observe the woman as she walks across the room to retrieve a large bowl and a jar. She’s small - although less so than Courfeyrac, who knows she’s really tiny - and broad-shouldered. She has dark hair with messy curls that fall on her back (not unlike Bossuet’ terrible wig, and Courfeyrac wonders for a moment if this is supposed to be the goal of that wig in the first place). It goes rather well with her general disheveled appearance. She’s not really pretty, Courfeyrac thinks as the woman sits on the opposite side of the table and then rolls her eyes at herself because it’s a ridiculous observation to make when there are so many more interesting things to note about the Seer, from her bored face and her painfully mundane clothes to the nervous tic of her fingers and the bags underneath her eyes.

“Bossuet told you the rules?” she asks.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says. “I’m not afraid, and Bossuet said this was free anyway, so..”

The woman smirks and her tone is far more engaging when she speaks again:

“Cool, then, let’s begin. My name’s R, and I am going to see your Future as it is now. I don’t write things, so If you want to remember all that I say, you may want to take out your phone to record the session. Do you have any questions about the process of clairvoyance before we begin?”

“I’m good, really,” Courfeyrac says.

She still takes her phone out - Combeferre will be delighted if she can actually listen to the session, and Courfeyrac loves to make Combeferre happy. R lets her program the phone in silence, and when Courfeyrac looks at her again, she doesn’t seem amused or bored anymore. Instead, she stares at Courfeyrac as if she’s reading her soul, which makes Courfeyrac shivers and internally nods with approval - _this_ is more like it, finally.

“Would you mind filling the bowl with the water in the jar, please?” R asks.

Courfeyrac takes the jar, which is far more heavy than she would have thought, considering the way R carried it a minute ago, and she has to tilt it very carefully above the bowl to pour the water in. Once the bowl is full, R immediately reaches to one of the myriad of little bottles standing on the left side of the table without even looking at it, and put all of its contents in the water. Smoke rises - it’s not really grey though, like ordinary smoke, but more like a very soft blue (like the door, like R’s eyes) and Courfeyrac is impressed, even if she knows that if Combeferre was here, she could tell her all about _chemical reactions_ and such.

“Put the tips of your fingers in the water now,” R says, sounding a bit distant.

Courfeyrac does once again as she’s instructed. The water is warm, which is nice. R imitates her, and their fingers brush against each other. For a short moment, they stay like that in silence, and then R exhales softly and smiles, her eyes looking through Courfeyrac as if she wasn’t there at all.

“Oh,” she says, “You’re in love.”

Courfeyrac’s cheeks turn pink. She should have expected this one. Bossuet has heard about Combeferre, after all, and Courfeyrac isn’t that subtle when she talks about her. _Love_ isn’t the word she would use, though - it’s a crush, that’s all. A small, ridiculous crush on her best friend, perfectly understandable because who _doesn’t_ have a crush on Combeferre, anyway?

“You should tell her,” R continues. “You are going to be happy - you know each other so well already. And the way she looks at you! Like you are the world and she can’t believe you chose her. She has a ring, and it’s hidden in her bedside table. She’s waiting for the moment you’re going to admit you want to marry her.”

_Marry_? Courfeyrac repeats in her mind, startled. She opens her mouth to ask R a bit more about it, because, seriously? She doesn’t want to marry Combeferre! Well - she wouldn’t _mind._ If Combeferre was ready to marry _her,_ well yes, then, she wouldn’t mind _at all._ But still, marriage is a big word when you’re not even sure yet that it would be a good idea to _date._ Before she can share her doubts though, R is already talking again:

“There’s a little girl, too!” Courfeyrac’ heart stops for a second. “Wait, she isn’t yours. It’s your niece. She’s cute. You love her, you’re playing with her right now, and your wife is still looking at you like -”

R stutters, and her face closes off, a frown appearing between her eyebrows.

“She’s worried,” she says. “You’re planning something dangerous, and she’s afraid she’s going to lose you.”

Despite the fact that she knows rationally that most of this is probably bullshit, Courfeyrac can’t help but lean slightly towards R, an uneasy feeling climbing up in her stomach.

“What I am planning?” she asks.

“Burning the world,” R says in a whisper. “Oh god, this is war. The lights are going out and you’re still outside, you shouldn’t be outside right now, the world is falling and you’re hurt - your leg - but you can do it, all you have to do is meet the group at the Musain, it’s not so far, god, it’s burning, everything is so _dark_ , please don’t -”

Suddenly, R grabs her wrists. Courfeyrac startles hard, her heart beating far too fast in her chest.

“You know her,” R says, her voice shaken. For a second, she looks as if she’s really seeing Courfeyrac again, but then the moment passes and a small, plaintive sound escapes from her lips. “You know her!” she repeats.

“Who?” Courfeyrac asks. “Who do I know?”

“She’s so bright,” R sighs. “She’s so bright and she’ll save you, just take her hands.” she coughs and shakes her head, as if to get rid of something bothering her and then, suddenly, she freezes completely. “No! No! What is she doing! No, it’s burning, you can’t burn, please!”

Courfeyrac is really growing scared. She tries to calm her nerves, tries to remind herself that this is a spectacle, nothing more - Bossuet wanted Courfeyrac to be impressed, and R is only acting - and what a good show it is. The smoke is gone now, and Courfeyrac can see that there are tears forming in the corner of R’s eyes, and her nails are digging into Courfeyrac’s skin and it looks like her breathing is getting uneven.

“Who’s burning?” she asks, doing her best not to look too worried.

“Bring her to me,” R says instead of answering (and oh - so this is just about having another client? Is Courfeyrac supposed to have thought of someone and, being properly amazed, bring that someone here?)

“You need to tell me _who,_ ” she says, curiosity about where this is going replacing her anxiety.

“I don’t know her name!” R replies, sounding suddenly angry. “She’s burning! She’s a star, always so bright, her soul is blazing and she’s _mine._ It would be wrong if I knew her name before she had a chance to say it herself. But she’s supposed to be the fire, why is it hurting her?”

“As impressive as you sound right now, you’re not making any sense,” Courfeyrac points out.

“You’re not supposed to burn. I saw you before, what’s changed?” R mutters to herself.

Courfeyrac frowns. R’s lips keep moving, but no sounds come out of her mouth. She looks completely out of it, and after two minutes, Courfeyrac’s patience grows thin. She’s never been one to sit idly by, and while R’s performance is really good, if she’s not going to say anything else that Courfeyrac could at least _interpret_ so it fits her own life, then there’s no reason for her to stay here. She can go out and tell Bossuet that this was really impressive, and that she _did_ get into it seriously for a while, and then go back to her place and tell Enjolras and Combeferre all about -

“She’s your friend,” R abruptly says, her voice so loud that Courfeyrac can’t help but grimace. “You need to bring her to me. She’ll trust you, she needs to come now, I need her to be here, this is it, if you don’t bring her, it’ll be too late, and she’ll burn and oh god, no, I saw her, she can’t burn, bring her to me!”

“I can’t bring someone if you don’t tell me _who,_ ” Courfeyrac says, using her best “logical voice”.

“ _Blonde,_ ” R spits out. “She’s blonde, she’s beautiful, she’s _mine._ I need her, I need her please, it’s been too long already, please, no war, she’s mine, please. Bring her to me. I’m almost gone already, too long, too late, mine, mine - i need - please - I need - so bright, so beautiful, don’t burn, don’t burn, please, come -”

R screams. It’s a piercing and sudden sound, and it _doesn’t stop._ Courfeyrac takes her hands out of the water and rises, this time seriously worried, not for her supposed future, but for the Seer. She tries to call her name, but R doesn’t seem to hear anything, she just screams, her arms shaking violently until her fingers cling to her head and stay there.

Courfeyrac has no idea what to do, but before she can even think of something, the door opens behind her loudly, and Bossuet appears, his face more serious than Courfeyrac has ever seen it. He doesn’t pay attention to her at all. Instead he immediately runs to R’s side, and tries to touch her. It’s a bad idea. R pushes him hard with her elbow, rises from her own chair as if she’s going to run and then she begins to yell “no, no,” over and over again, mumbling sometimes in between: “she’s burning, I’m burning, bring her, it’s too late, so bright”

“The jar, Courfeyrac,” Bossuet ends up saying tersely.

“What?” Courfeyrac says - she’s distracted by R’s screams, the way she’s shaking while she repeats “no” and “too late” and “please” - nobody can fake this, right?

“The jar!” Bossuet says, almost _snaps_ and - right. Even if R was faking, Bossuet is definitely not, because they have largely past the point where this is funny, and Bossuet doesn’t do pranks he doesn’t think everybody will laugh about later.

Courfeyrac gives him the jar. Bossuet takes a step back and, without hesitation, throws the rest of the water on R’s face. For a brief moment, Courfeyrac can’t help but wonder what he hopes to achieve, because nothing seems to change, but then R turns towards her, gazing at her with wide, teary eyes, looking more present than she’d been since the beginning of the session.

“Please,” she stammers, her voice hoarse from the screaming. “I don’t want to burn.”

She wavers on her feet, lets out a last, small sob and then suddenly her legs give out and Bossuet catches her as she falls, unconscious.

 

*

 

Courfeyrac distantly thinks that she should go.

She feels like she’s seen too much already; something personal happened and she was never supposed to witness it, that much is clear enough. And yet she keeps on watching, frozen, when Bossuet carefully puts R on the red couch again, and she’s still here when, ten minutes later, R begins to move again weakly, and Bossuet just shushes her gently, his hand on her ankle. It takes some time still, but after a while R finally opens her eyes and immediately groans.

“Fucking hell, what happened?” she asks, her voice raw.

“You just got a bit intense again,” Bossuet says, and his tone is cheerful again, as if R’s episode was just a cute little incident and he hadn’t looked over her with anxious eyes for the past ten minutes.

“Did I?” R looks up to Courfeyrac. “Did I say something really bad?” she asks her.

“Um,” Courfeyrac says, and glances at Bossuet who’s frowning at his lap. “You weren’t making a lot of sense,” she ends up saying, hoping that her tone is casual enough. “You kept repeating things about someone being bright and beautiful?”

“Oh.” R actually blushes and tries to move her head, but it only makes her moan with pain. She throws one of her arm over her eyes and sighs. “I have the worst headache ever,” she says.

“It’s what you say every time you’re hangover,” Bossuet retorts, and laughs when R weakly hits him with her foot. “Come on, I’m just going to make sure Courfeyrac leaves without being traumatized and then we’ll close for today, deal?”

“Yeah,” R agrees. “Thanks for passing by, Courfeyrac, it was nice seeing you again. We’ll talk more next Friday?”

“Um,” Courfeyrac repeats, because _what?_ “Sure?”

R lowers her arm just enough that she can see Courfeyrac again and frowns, clearly confused. Courfeyrac sends her back the same look - she’s never seen R before today, she’s absolutely sure of it and there’s an awkward silence until R tenses and purses her lips.

“Sorry,” she says tersely. “I mean, I hope we see each other again. You know. If you’re not totally freaked out right now.”

“I am, but just a little bit, don’t worry,” Courfeyrac says honestly. “I hope you get better?”

R snorts and hides her face again.

“I need a fucking drink,” she mutters. “That will make me feel better.”

“Plenty of wine at mine’s,” Bossuet says gently, patting her leg one last time before getting up. “Come on, Courfeyrac, let’s go.”

“Yeah, yes. Goodbye, R, rest well.” Courfeyrac says.

“You may want to wait a little bit before making Combeferre listen to the recording,” R blurts out just before Courfeyrac passes the door again. “You’re a bit shaken up, and you won’t like it when she asks you about the person you’re in love with - especially if you didn’t tell her about your feelings first.”

Courfeyrac’s steps falter for a second, but Bossuet’s hand on her back pushes her calmly forward, and she’s in the lobby again before she can think of anything proper to say. She turns to Bossuet, feeling more agitated than ever.

“Did you tell her about Combeferre?” she can’t help but ask.

“No,” Bossuet sighs.

“What was that, then? I mean - I mean I’ve never seen a Seer before but, _wow,_ Bossuet.”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Bossuet says quietly. “She’s the true deal.”

“Well, yes,” Courfeyrac admits, a little embarrassed. “I didn’t actually believe you, sorry.”

“Can’t blame you,” Bossuet shrugs, smiling lightly. “But she is. The first time we met, she saved my life - and then she proceeded to save my bank account, and introduce me to Joly. On the same day. She really has the Gift, trust me.”

“Hard not to believe you _now,_ ” Courfeyrac mumbles and then passes a hand through her hair. “How is it possible though? Real Seers just don’t _exist._ At least not anymore, right? Because of the whole _Seers had to stay virgin and pure_ thing? I thought the gene had died, like, _at least_ two centuries ago!”

“Dude, I don’t know,” Bossuet says. “Joly’s the one who’s been making researches about Seers - there are some who really have the Gift but it’s just a small percentage. Most don’t even realize it. And others have become so good at pretending, it’s hard to differentiate them all. I guess Grantaire’s a sort of genetic anomaly. It doesn’t mean that it isn’t true, though.”

Courfeyrac wets her lips, still uneasy, and takes another look at the blue door.

“It doesn’t explain what happened there really,” she says in a whisper.

“Yes it does,” Bossuet whispers too, crossing his arms on his chest. “She’s a true Seer, Courfeyrac. True Seers need an Anchor, otherwise they go mad, with time.”

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac says, her stomach twisting. “Is it what’s -”

“Yeah. She’s twenty-seven,” Bossuet says, and he looks so sad that Courfeyrac can’t help but takes his hand in her own. “She hasn’t found hers yet. She had visions of her before but - well. It’s always been rare for a Seer to find their Anchor, right? Myths love to remind us that. And she just doesn’t talk about it. Those - crisis - what you’ve seen today, they’re becoming more and more frequents and one day I won’t be able to stop them and -”

Bossuet’s voice breaks. It’s the first time Courfeyrac has ever seen her friend so distressed, and she pulls him into a hug, because sometimes gestures are better than words. Bossuet immediately clings to her, which means she must have done the right thing.

Internally, she thinks about R - Grantaire, apparently - and how awful it must be, to know that you are going mad and not being able to do anything about it. Courfeyrac wishes she could help her. If only she had a way of -

“Oh,” she says suddenly, realizing how stupid she’s been.

“What?” Bossuet asks to the top of her head.

“R said I knew her,” Courfeyrac says. She blinks against Bossuet’s chest, and then takes a step back, smiling excitedly at her friend. “During her vision, before she really lost it, she told me that I knew her, and when I asked _who_ she just said ‘bring her here’”.

“That’s -” Bossuet seems at lost for words. “You - _damn._ ”

“She said she was a friend,” Courfeyrac continues, thinking hard. “I have a lot of friends, and she didn’t gave me much, but - she did say -” Courfeyrac stops again. _Blonde. So beautiful._ She does have a lot of friends, but there is, strangely, only one person who would fit those two particular criteria. Damn, she’s so slow today. But this would mean - _fuck._

“Fuck,” she repeats out loud, and wonders how the hell she’s going to tell Enjolras that she’s probably the Anchor of a Seer.

 

*

 

When Courfeyrac enters in the apartment she shares with her two favourite people in the world, she still can’t quite process all that she’s learnt this afternoon, and so she quietly puts her shoes and her jacket away before glancing at the living-room to see if Enjolras and Combeferre are here. She hopes they won’t, because she’s not sure what she’s going to say to them yet - she’s rehearsed in the metro all kind of potential stories, but none felt right. Unfortunately, because this is just that kind of day, both of her roommates are sitting on the couch, looking at the computer on Enjolras’ lap. They’re probably reading the news. Bless them, thinks Courfeyrac fondly and instead of sneaking into her room, she just stands there and watches them until they notice her.

They both raise their eyes towards her at the same time and she can’t help but grin.

“What’s new in the world today?” she asks, moving forward to join them.

“Nothing, if the newspapers are to be trusted,” Enjolras answers, smiling at her.

Courfeyrac sits next to her, and takes a peek at the article they were reading. It’s a review of Maleficent. She snorts, and kisses Enjolras’ cheek, trying not to think too hard about R’s words.

_She’ll burn._

Was an Anchor in danger if they didn’t find their Seer? Stories never told what happened to the Anchor, it was always all about the Seer’s madness. Then again, how was an Anchor supposed to be aware they _were_ an Anchor in the first place? Enjolras had never told them about a feeling of emptiness, or an instinct she’d had since birth telling her that she’d had to find someone. Was Enjolras even really R’s Anchor? Maybe Courfeyrac, in her desire to help, had jumped to that conclusion too fast. Surely there were a lot of other blonde and beautiful girls that she knew?

“You look troubled,” Combeferre says with a frown. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac answers immediately. “Of course I am.”

Nobody, she thinks, does unimpressed looks quite like Enjolras and Combeferre. It’s fascinating to watch, although she would have prefered it if they accepted her lie and moved on. But she knows they’re too good friends to do that, and she can’t blame them really - if she was in their position, she would undoubtedly do the same.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says affectionately, rolling her eyes. “I just went to Bossuet’s workplace this afternoon, and it gave me food for thoughts, that’s all.”

“Oh, yes,” Combeferre says, straightening up, her eyes shining with sudden interest. “How was it, then?”

Courfeyrac looks at her for a moment. Combeferre is beautiful, when she’s passionate, and she very rarely isn’t. Her dark eyes are riveting; Courfeyrac could lose herself in them. She often does, those days. R is a true Seer, she thinks, one of the kind. It means that everything she said was true.

“ _She has a ring, and it’s waiting on her bedside table”_

Of course she wouldn’t have the ring _right now_ but…

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras calls out softly.

Courfeyrac’s cheeks turn pink and she clears her throat. “Right, yes. Well, it was… an experience. She said a lot of… interesting things.”

“Are you saying you believed her?” Enjolras asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.

If Enjolras is truly R’s Anchor, then Courfeyrac has no idea how things are going to end well. She knows, of course, that Enjolras doesn’t believe in Seers, the same way she knows Combeferre is ready to believe if one day she meets one that’s convincing enough. Enjolras is like Courfeyrac, certain that all Seers are scams (well, not like Courfeyrac anymore, she supposes) but while Courfeyrac is willing to admit that Seers probably existed a long time ago, Enjolras rejects the notion completely. It doesn’t suit well with her, the idea that the Future is fixed already, written in the stars or even in her soul. Enjolras puts all of her faith in the possibility of change, after all.

If she didn’t know that R’s mind was in danger, Courfeyrac would probably not even think about introducing the two of them. Ever.

“She was really… convincing,” Courfeyrac says, shrugging casually. “And yeah, it could have been an act, but then it would mean that Bossuet was acting too, and I know him too well to believe that so.”

Enjolras shakes her head with pure consternation but goes back to her computer in silence. Combeferre, however, is still looking attentively at Courfeyrac, which does things to Courfeyrac’s stomach. How weird would it be, to reach over Enjolras’s lap right now and kisses Combeferre? It probably wouldn’t be fair on Enjolras, granted, but if Combeferre and her are going to end up married to each other one day, it seems useless to waste another minute.

“What did she do? Did she used cards? Or a crystal ball? Or tea?” Combeferre asks.

“Um, water, actually,” Courfeyrac answers. “She made me pour warm water in a bowl, then she added something else that made blue smoke - really pretty although I guess it was more for show than anything else - and then she made me put my fingers in the water, and she put hers too, and then she just…. told me my Future.”

Enjolras snorts quietly at the same time Combeferre hums enthusiastically. Courfeyrac thinks things would be so much simpler if their reactions were reversed. She can see Bossuet’s hopeful face in her mind, and she feels terrible at the idea of letting him down. Bossuet’s a great guy, and he deserves better than to keep watching one of his friend get worse and worse with no way of helping her.

“I’ve never heard of blue smoke before,” Combeferre says pensively. “Did she do anything else with the water afterwards?”

“No,” Courfeyrac answers.

“And what is your Future made of, then?” Enjolras asks dryly.

Courfeyrac hesitates for a while - she could lie, but what’s the point? Her friends know her too well, she has no doubt they’ll immediately see she’s not telling the truth, and then they’ll wonder _why_ she’s hiding stuff from them - something that she never did before. She wets her lips nervously, and then offers a smile to Combeferre, hoping she’s going to convey everything she wants to properly.

“She told me - she told me to go tell the person I liked that I had feelings for her,” she says softly. “That this person liked me back, and our friendship would just make our relationship stronger.”

Combeferre doesn’t take her eyes off her, but she does jerk her head back shakily, as if she’s not sure what she’s supposed to understand. Courfeyrac wants badly to get her into her room, so they can talk privately about all the things they need to tell each other, but there is a person that needs her help right now, and she can wait just a little bit longer before kissing Combeferre. She glances down at Enjolras, whose cheeks have reddened. She looks so awkward, the poor dear, her face all frozen as she keeps on pretending to read her article.

“She also told me to bring you, next time, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac says bravely.

Enjolras startles - she visibly hadn’t expected that, which is good - Enjolras says “no” far less quickly if she doesn’t know what’s coming for her. She likes to think before making decisions.

“What? What do you mean, she told you to bring me?”

“She gave me your description, and she told me to bring you,” Courfeyrac says. “That’s it. I think it could be interesting. You could come with Combeferre and me. What do you think of Friday?”

Enjolras looks at her suspiciously.

“Are you trying to trick me?” she asks.

Damn, Courfeyrac thinks. She went too fast.

“No, of course not,” she says but she already knows she’s lost - at least for now.

Enjolras, indeed, rolls her eyes and says with a voice that allows no objection: “You know my opinions on Seers. I think it’s best for everyone involved if I _don’t_ meet one.”

 

**Part II - Through your own eyes**

 

Enjolras has spent months watching the strange dance of Combeferre and Courfeyrac. She’s watched Courfeyrac fall in love slowly and she’s sat next to Combeferre when she couldn’t find the proper words to express her feelings. She’s been waiting in frustrated silence for them to finally glance at each other at the same time and realize that they both felt the same way for what seems to be an eternity, bound to her promise to Feuilly _not_ to interfere, no matter how much she thought they needed it.

It sounds logical that she should feel happy that it _finally_ happened. And she is, truly. Her two best friends look more radiant than ever before. They keep smiling and talking so cheerfully and excitedly about everything that, to listen to them, you could think that nothing is wrong in the world. They also seem more settled - Courfeyrac in her usual trepidation, and Combeferre in her quiet nervosity. They are clearly, undoubtedly happy, and Enjolras -

“I feel like a bad friend,” she admits with difficulty to Feuilly during their usual Sunday lunch.

Feuilly looks at her thoughtfully for a moment, taking her time to finish to eat her piece of meat before shrugging and giving a small smile to Enjolras .

“For what it’s worth,” she says, “I don’t think you are. It must be strange, to see your two best friends in a romantic relationship - especially as you live together, and you cannot escape it.”

“Was it strange for you when Bahorel and Jehan got together?” Enjolras asks curiously.

“For a while,” Feuilly answers honestly. “Then we had sex, and it was better.”

Enjolras does not blush; she _doesn’t_. It isn’t as if she hasn’t heard about this before. Everybody in their little group is aware that Feuilly has some kind of arrangement with Bahorel and Jehan. There have been enough drunken nights in the group for Enjolras to be painfully aware of what the arrangement consist of exactly. Feuilly grins at her, clearly knowing the direction her thoughts are taking, and Enjolras lowers her eyes to her half-eaten plate, carefully not thinking about the scene she walked in at their last party.

“I don’t think I would like to have sex with Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” she says finally.

“Yeah, I don’t think so either,” Feuilly snorts, and then reaches over the table to pat Enjolras’ hand gently. “But seriously, you’ve got to give yourself a little time to adjust. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad friend for it.”

It still seems wrong to Enjolras, that she cannot be immediately and completely happy for her best friends. She hates feeling awkward in the morning, when Courfeyrac, still half-asleep, comes sit on Combeferre’s lap - it isn’t that they didn’t do that sometimes, before, but now there is this implicit statement that they spend the night in the same bed, and Enjolras can’t help but feel like she is witnessing something private, like she _shouldn’t be here._

It’s unfair for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who are clearly doing their best _not_ to make her feel left out. Enjolras is a bit angry at herself for not being able to make an effort of her own.

Still, she won’t importunate Feuilly more than she has to. Feuilly is a wonderful friend, and an even more amazing listener, and surely she wouldn’t complain if Enjolras kept talking about this. However, Sunday Lunch was a tradition born from Enjolras’ desire to know more about Feuilly. It’d been almost two years since they’d started, and now that they both knew each other pretty well, _“knowing more about Feuilly”_ had turned into “ _hearing about Feuilly’s week”,_ which was, in Enjolras’ opinion, much more interesting and worthwhile than Enjolras’ petty feelings.

“How did your meeting with your new boss go, then?” she asks. “You didn’t say on Friday night.”

“It was really strange,” Feuilly answers, accepting the change of conversation easily. “He’s a nice enough guy, but he’s very insecure about what he’s doing. I’d been afraid of having fucked up, but he only wanted to introduce me to the place’s personal Seer.”

Enjolras barely refrains from scowling - she’s been hearing Courfeyrac’s talking about the Seer she went to see last week so much these past few days that she’s grown fairly sick of the subject. She can’t understand why her usually rational friend is suddenly so keen on believing in this myth. From Combeferre, she wouldn’t have been that surprised - but Courfeyrac had shared her opinions on Seers until that last Thursday, and now she keeps gushing about that R girl (when she’s not too busy gushing about Combeferre), always looking at Enjolras as if waiting for her to say or do something (but what, Enjolras has no idea).

Some of her disdain must still show on her face though, because Feuilly laughs and pats her hand affectionately again.

“Yeah, I know,” she says, “it’s ridiculous. Pretty sure the Seer isn’t even _trying_ to act like a Seer. He just happens to be very good with people and running the agence, so Monsieur Gertand is all over him. I think it’s quite clear to me who’s the really boss here but well.” Feuilly shrugs again. “Nothing I can do right now, and I think that it would actually be worse to create a rift between Gertand and him. The man is good, it’s a fact.”

Can a liar really make a good leader? Enjolras thinks, sill rather put out, and ends up asking the question out loud, just so she can hear what Feuilly have to say. It’s not rare for their lunches to turn into debates - debate, after all, is how Feuilly and Enjolras became friends in the first place - but today, they keep talking for far longer than usual, and when Feuilly finally checks her watch, she curses under her breath.

“Shit, Enjolras, I’m sorry, I promise I’ll spend the afternoon with Jehan, they wanted to go to the opening of a new greek play - modernized by someone who’s apparently really famous in the genre? I think I’m already going to be late -”

“Of course,” Enjolras smiles and waves her hand. “Go on, then, I’ll pay.”

Feuilly frowns, even as she gets up: “I’ll pay you back next Friday.”

“Or you’ll pay our next meal, whatever you prefer,” Enjolras says, because she knows there is no point in arguing with Feuilly about money. Feuilly’s face clears up, and she leans over the table to put a kiss on Enjolras’ cheek.

“Don’t hesitate to call if you want to get away from the lovebirds during the week. See you, E!”

“Tell Jehan I say hi!” Enjolras answers.

She watches Feuilly leave through the window and then looks down at her unfinished dessert. The chantilly has melted with the ice cream, leaving behind only a puddle of sickly pale yellow cream, but the half-eaten chocolate cake still looks good enough, and although she has no appetite for it anymore, she knows that Courfeyrac will be happy if she brings it back home.

She asks for the bill and for something to carry the cake, and then she’s outside and reluctant to go home. Instead of taking the metro, she takes the street on her left, and begins to walk as slowly as she can, which is still not as slow as many others, barely taking into account her surroundings.

It’s a funny sort of week, she thinks, and she hopes that her own embarrassed feelings will fade out soon, because taking walks alone in the afternoon is just not something that she usually do. Courfeyrac likes to wander in the most touristic areas of Paris with her, from times to times, and Bahorel and Jehan never miss an opportunity to make them discover all the forgotten streets of the city when they can, because they probably are the ones who know Paris the best, but it’s not an activity that Enjolras would think of doing by herself.

When she gets out of her thoughts, she realizes that she ended up near the banks of the Seine. It’s hot outside, and a lot of people are here, most of them in groups, some of them sitting at the very near border of the river, their shoes at their side. She stops short on her tracks, looks around her with a frown, and wonders _what_ she is doing here. She has work waiting for her at home. It’s foolish of her to avoid the comfort and calm of her own room just because she’s apparently lost the ability to be around her best friends. When her eyes fall on one couple giggling and kissing each other every two steps they take, she shakes her head and turns back decisively.

The journey home is short. In the metro, Enjolras lets her mind wander again, except this time she doesn’t think about herself but about the last paper she read on Street Harassment. The woman who writes it had made beautiful arguments, and Enjolras has been toying with the idea of contacting her. ABC, after all, is always looking for more allies, and she knows it wouldn’t be hard for the others to see the potential good of establishing a link between them and the woman’s association, _Colère: nom féminin._ She has to remember to make it a point to consider during their next meeting.

When she arrives home, she actually feels better and focused. She opens the door a bit louder than usual, to make sure that Combeferre and Courfeyrac will hear her if they were doing anything that she shouldn’t be witnessing and once she’s out of her shoes, takes a peek into their living-room. It’s empty - which is actually surprising. However, once she begins to listen a bit more intently, she can hear Courfeyrac’s voice, coming from her room. Although Enjolras can’t quite make out the words, she knows her best friend, and she doesn’t miss the panic in her tone. Frowning, she immediately goes in that direction.

Outside of Courfeyrac’s closed door is standing Combeferre. She’s leaning against the wall, her arms crossed on her chest, her brows creased in a worried expression. When she sees Enjolras, her lips curl up in a small smile, but it doesn’t make the anxious glint in her dark eyes disappear. Enjolras glances at the door, catches a “Bossuet, _please_ ” from inside the room, and then looks back at her best friend, mirroring her face.

“What’s happening?” she whispers.

“I’m not sure,” Combeferre answers carefully (too carefully. Enjolras’ frown deepens). “She’s been on the phone with Bossuet for a while now.”

“Are they arguing?”

“I don’t think so,” Combeferre says at the same time as Courfeyrac, on the other side, proclaims: “I _will._ I will, Bossuet, I’m not letting her get worse if there’s any chance - but I don’t want you to get your hopes up, alright?”

“Who is she talking about?” Enjolras asks.

“She hasn’t said any name,” Combeferre answers and - there it is again, the same careful tone she used before.

“But you know,” Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow.

Combeferre sighs: “I think I do, yes. But I don’t think it’s my place to talk about it.”

“Okay, okay,” Courfeyrac says a bit more quietly. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be as quick as I can. Just - Yeah. I’ll see you soon. Give a kiss to everyone for me. Bye.”

Combeferre and Enjolras share a look. _Should we go?_ Enjolras asks silently, and Combeferre shrugs, biting her lips uneasily. Before they can decide anything, however, Courfeyrac’s door opens abruptly, startling the both of them, and Courfeyrac just stares from the other side, one hand still on the doorknob, before rolling her eyes.

“Imagine if this had been a private conversation,” she says, smiling weakly. “What an awkward situation this would be.”

Combeferre’s fingers curl up around her wrist: “Are you okay?” she asks.

Courfeyrac’s grin disappear. She lets her head fall on Combeferre’s arm, and sighs: “Oh me, I’m fine.”

“Is someone in trouble?” Enjolras asks quietly.

“Actually, someone is… sick,” Courfeyrac says, and then looks up to Enjolras, a pensive glint in her eyes. “You wouldn’t refuse to help someone if you could, Enjolras, would you?”

Enjolras stares at her, confused: “Of course not,” she answers after a beat.

“Anyone?” Courfeyrac insists. “Even someone you don’t particularly approve of?”

“I don’t know!” Enjolras says, starting to get frustrated. “What’s the situation here? It’s clear that something is going on, but if you don’t tell me -”

Courfeyrac glances at Combeferre, and Combeferre nods slightly. Enjolras tries not to feel hurt at the idea that the two of them are sharing something she isn’t a part of. _It’s normal,_ she thinks loudly. _It’s normal, there is no need for petty jealousy._

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says calmly. “You should come with us tomorrow. I’m sure everything will be clearer if every party is here to discuss things properly.”

 

*

 

In the morning, Enjolras is pushed unceremoniously into Courfeyrac’s car, and she regrets firmly being sensitive of her best friend’s state of mind yesterday and not asking for more information. Combeferre keeps one hand on her shoulder until she’s put her security belt on, as if she’s afraid Enjolras is going to run away, and it’s so completely ridiculous that Enjolras would think her two friends are playing a prank on her if they weren’t looking so serious.

“Are we going far?” she asks, because they don’t usually use the car unless they’re leaving Paris, and she has plans for the afternoon that she would rather not postpone.

“Actually, no,” Courfeyrac says, “We should be here in ten - well, fifteen minutes, if that woman in front of us doesn’t learn _how to drive properly_ before we get there!”

“Then why did we take the car in the first place?” Enjolras asks and then shakes her head, rethinking: “Actually, I don’t care. What I do care about is, where are we going?”

When Courfeyrac stays silent a beat too long, Enjolras sighs and turns her head to Combeferre, who’s sitting in the back. She has, like Courfeyrac, tense lines around her eyes, but she doesn’t try to avoid Enjolras’ look, which Enjolras is grateful for.

“We’re going to _Le Temple de Delphes_ ,” Combeferre says.

“What?” Enjolras exclaims at the same time as Courfeyrac gasps: “Combeferre!”

“It’s not fair of us to say nothing to her, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, moving slightly forwards so she can squeeze her girlfriend’s arm gently. She then turns to Enjolras again. “Bossuet and his friend would like to meet you. We have reason to think that you could help them, but if we’re right and you’re the person they’re looking for, then it will be up to them to explain to you exactly what’s going on.”

“Bossuet’s seer friend?” Enjolras says to clarify.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says.

“What could I possibly do for a Seer?” Enjolras asks with a frown and when her friends fail to answer, she purses her lips and adds: “You’re clearly concerned that I’m not going to be happy about all of this. To be completely frank, what’s really bothering me right now is that you’re not telling me anything -”

“Enjolras -” Combeferre begins.

“You trust us, don’t you?” Courfeyrac asks, forgetting to watch the road for a moment to look at Enjolras with her large, determined and sincere eyes, and Enjolras can’t help but soften for a second.

“Of course, I do,” she says, and Courfeyrac smiles.

“Then please, trust us on this one?”

Enjolras bites her tongue and manages to say _this is not the point._ It’s never been the point. There are no people in this world that Enjolras trusts more than Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but that doesn’t mean that she’s okay with being lead somewhere without knowing what she has to _do._ She likes plans. She likes goals, and objectives, and being aware of every details of a situation before she actually dives into it (she may have a slight control problem - Courfeyrac alluded to it once or twice in the past, but control always reassured Enjolras).

“Fine,” she says anyway, and wonders in private why the hell Bossuet’ friend asked for _her_.

She doesn’t even know Bossuet, really. Courfeyrac met him at the beginning of the year, and always talks about him fondly - he’s apparently been stuck in the same year of his _Master_ for five years now, and rarely comes to class after the beginning of the year. Courfeyrac said that Bossuet has actually no intention of becoming a lawyer - ever - but he likes university life too much to give it up completely. Courfeyrac met Marius through him, but contrary to Marius, Bossuet has never been able to join them to one of their meetings, and as such Enjolras has never been able to form a proper opinion on him (she tries to never judge a person’ character from what other people say about them, whether positive or negative).

But this isn’t about Bossuet, she reminds herself, it’s about his friend, who happens to be a Seer - that is to say, someone who plays on people's’ emotions and weaknesses for money, perhaps the only kind of someone that Enjolras is ready to judge without meeting first.

Enjolras comes back to reality when she feels Combeferre’s hand on her shoulder again and realizes that Courfeyrac is parking the car. There is nothing resembling a seer shop when Enjolras glances around though. She looks back at Courfeyrac, who seems to read her mind:

“It’s a little bit further, in the street just behind _La Fnac,_ ” she says, pointing to the tall building in front of them. She stares at Enjolras for a second, bites her lips, and then takes off her belt and smiles:

“Ready?”

Enjolras shrugs, trying to ignore the cold feeling in the back of her neck:

“Let’s go,” she says.

 

*

 

They haven’t taken a step into the shop that a high-pitched yell rises above the soft music playing in the background. Enjolras feels Courfeyrac tenses against her, but she doesn’t have the time to ask her what’s wrong - the door on the right suddenly opens widely, and an angry-looking woman appears. One of her hand is put protectively on her belly. She’s still glaring at something - or probably someone - in the room she was just in when she yells:

“I didn’t come to hear such atrocities about my baby, you wretched witch! You can be sure that I won’t come back, and you can go to hell if you think that I’m going to pay you!”

She turns around abruptly, probably ready to storm out of the shop, but comes to an halt when she sees Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac still standing near the entry. She scowls, eyes vicious and cheeks flushed by anger, and points her other hand to them:

“Don’t go in there,” she says. “Don’t go in there, that …. That crazy hag just lies and enjoys making people miserable!”

“Didn’t they tell you the rules before starting?” Courfeyrac asks, sounding truly unimpressed by the woman.

It almost looks as if the woman is going to explode; Enjolras has seen others like her, before - all indignant and self-righteously angry, but incapable of realizing they’re angry for the wrong reasons. This woman, instead of answering, simply snarls and Combeferre pulls Enjolras by the wrist to make sure that she isn’t pushed as the woman makes her way to the exit with long steps. The sound of the bell is nearly completely stifled by the door slamming behind her.

“Well,” Courfeyrac says cheerfully, “Now at least we’re sure R is going to be free! Come on.”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, “Maybe we should wait -”

“No need,” a tired voice interrupts her and Enjolras raises her eyes to see the head of dark-skinned man poking through the doorway “Let’s not waste any time.” He smiles nicely at them before disappearing again. They can still hear his clear invitation: “Come on in, we’ll be better in here to talk!”

Courfeyrac immediately takes Enjolras by the arm once more and leads her to the room, Combeferre following right behind them.

Enjolras briefly takes note of the terribly white walls, the large red couch on the left, and the immense desk full of little flasks, but her eyes are immediately drawn to the girl behind the desk, who’s looking at her with a peculiar expression that Enjolras can’t read. She feels a shiver run through her spine, almost like a current of electricity, and finds herself absolutely riveted by the grey-blue eyes of the other woman, her pale skin and broken nose, the way her mouth is twitching, as if she wants to smile - or maybe speak - without actually doing it, and the flat black curl of her hair that’s brushing against her cheek. She looks both sick and happy and almost as fascinated by Enjolras as Enjolras is by her, albeit Enjolras has no idea why she finds her so interesting in the first place.

“It’s great to finally meet you!” The man of earlier says, bringing her back suddenly to reality. She forces herself to look away from the woman and glances at the man, whose smile has grown larger. “I’m Henry Lesgles - but I guess Courfeyrac has already told you to call me Bossuet, so -”

“It’s nice to put a face on the name,” Combeferre says next to Enjolras. “Courfeyrac talks an awful lot about you.”

“Of course she does,” Bossuet grins at Courfeyrac, who grins back.

“I like you too much, it’s a shame.” she says.

“Babe, your girlfriend’s in the room,” Bossuet theatrically whispers.

“Yeah yeah, it’s all nice and good,” the woman says, and Enjolras’ attention is immediately brought back to her. Her eyes are still fixed on Enjolras. “But _I_ don’t actually know you guys - well, Combeferre a little bit perhaps but, I don’t think I’ve ever heard _your_ name?”

She asks Enjolras with something like hope and anticipation in her voice, and it takes Enjolras aback.

“I thought I had been specifically summoned here,” she points out, raising her eyebrows. The woman’ cheeks turn a soft shade of pink, and Courfeyrac’ pinches the back of Enjolras’ hand, who sighs. “I’m Enjolras.” she says, trying to sound more polite.

“Enjolras,” the woman repeats, the word rolling of her tongue almost reverently. It makes Enjolras frowns slightly. “I’m Grantaire - well, R.”

“Pleasure,” Enjolras says.

This is more tense and awkward than anything, actually. She feels itchy and unbalanced under the scrutiny of Grantaire’s stare, and she could probably handle the strange expectation that’s coming off her if it wasn’t for the fact that she can see the same emotion reflected on Bossuet’s face and in Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s falsely casual postures. Once again, it looks as if she’s the only one who doesn’t know what’s at stake here. It’s irking.

“Well,” she says, perhaps a bit more briskly than intended. “You wanted to talk?”

Grantaire blinks, looking surprised, and her eyes fall on the desk for a second, moving away from Enjolras, before she rises them again with a new glint into them, her fingers curling around the edge of the desk chair.

“They didn’t tell you before coming?” she asks, a strange intonation in her raspy voice.

“They said you might need my help,” Enjolras answers, wishing they would just go straight to the point. “It’s apparently better if you explain what you want yourself - I admit I can’t see why a Seer would need anything from someone she’s never met.”

“You can’t?” Grantaire says, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

It just makes Enjolras feels even more at loss, and she purses her lips, choosing to stay silent and just wait until Grantaire decides to explain herself properly. She’s been told before that her blank face can be quite terrifying. She’s not sure it’s true, but it does seem to considerably cool down Grantaire, who loses her perplexed face and frowns instead, tilting her head slightly as she openly studies Enjolras’ expression.

“You don’t like me,” she finally says flatly after a moment of outstretched silence.

Enjolras can see Bossuet flinch on the left, and she feels Courfeyrac’s nails grazing against her hand again in… what? Prevention? Warning? It isn’t necessary. Enjolras doesn’t actually know what to answer - saying either yes or no would be a lie; she’s not happy to be there, for sure, and she resents the fact that everybody seems to know something that she doesn’t, but apart for her intense and odd stares, she doesn’t have much against Grantaire (although she doesn’t have much _for_ her either).

Before she can think of anything proper to respond, Grantaire’s whole demeanor seems to change, her eyes shining as if she’s come to an internal decision. She straightens up, her fingers slowly uncurling from the chair, and she smiles at Enjolras - it’s a broad, confident smile, and Enjolras is struck by the contrast between this and the uncertain look she gave her before. It feels like she’s playing a role, and Enjolras is immediately wary.

She’s right to.

“It’s alright,” Grantaire says, with a tone probably meant to be reassuring. Her smile gets wider, and her voice is very self-assured when she adds after a second: “You will like me, eventually.”

Enjolras bristles. She thinks she hears Courfeyrac whispering a soft “fuck” next to to her but she completely ignores it.

“That’s rather presumptuous,” she says coldly.

“That’s fact,” Grantaire retorts, and there’s almost a challenge in her voice. “I saw it.”

“I’m sure you did,” Enjolras snorts, not trying at all to hide her disdain.

Something flashes in Grantaire’s eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, and when she walks around the desk, her smile turns into a grimace.

“So _that’s_ what you don’t like about me,” she says. “The fact that I’m a Seer.”

“Grantaire -” Bossuet says warningly.

But Grantaire doesn’t listen to her friend. She stares at Enjolras a moment longer before bursting into sudden laughter, her head jerking backward. It doesn’t sound happy at all.

“Oh, but isn’t it _beautiful,_ Bossuet?” she says, her voice full of sarcasm. “An Anchor who doesn’t like Seers! I’m sure we can all appreciate the irony here!”

She laughs again, and Bossuet looks like he’s going to tell her off but Enjolras beats him to the punch, her curiosity about what Grantaire is talking about battling against her anger at being the subject of a conversation she doesn’t understand;

“Anchor?” she repeats. “What do you mean, Anchor?”

Grantaire’s eyes fall back on her, and her lips stretch into another strained smile:

“Why do you care?” she retorts. “You’ve made your feelings clear.”

Enjolras resists the urge to grit her teeth and tries to regain her calm without success. There is something infuriating in the way Grantaire holds herself now, nonchalant and mocking.

“How can I have expressed my feelings on something that you’re _still_ refusing to explain?” she asks, frustration bursting through her voice.

“By having a very expressive face,” Grantaire replies mockingly. “What do you think?”

“Are you going to tell me that you can _see_ it?” Enjolras says derisively.

For a brief moment, Grantaire loses her casual air:

“As a matter of fact, _yes,_ ” she says aggressively and for a second Enjolras is sure she’s going to walk over and shake her, but the sensation disappear quickly. Instead, Grantaire makes a show of leaning against the corner of the desk, crosses her arms on her chest, and sighs: “I don’t have time for this,” she says, sounding suddenly bored. “I’ve got clients waiting and a business to run. If you don’t like Seers, nobody is forcing you to stay.”

The clear dismissal feels like a punch. Enjolras is half-tempted to stay right where she is, just because she feels petty and irrationally annoyed by such a total waste of her time. She looks at Grantaire, and she wonders why she ever thought that following her best friends to meet a Seer was a good idea. Seers, at best, are scams trying to make a living of the uncertainty of other people - she knows that. But of course she had to meet the one who doesn’t even _try_ to be charming or honest. Everything is a game for Seers, and evidently Grantaire is no different.

“ _Grantaire!_ ” Bossuet snaps.

His voice reminds Enjolras that they aren’t alone in the room. She glances at her best friends, who are still standing next to her and another peak of anger goes through her when she notices the thoughtful frown that Combeferre is giving her, while Courfeyrac is looking at Grantaire with wide, sympathetic eyes, understanding and compassion written all over her face.

Grantaire doesn’t acknowledge the interruption; she’s purposefully ignoring both Bossuet and Courfeyrac and stares expectantly at Enjolras instead, who finally gives in with a strange, hollow feeling that isn’t quite anger anymore.

“Very well,” she says. “I’d say it was a pleasure to meet you, but i’m sure you could read into my soul that I was lying.”

Grantaire rolls her eyes, seemingly unaffected - although Enjolras catches the way her fingers curls into a fist - and then looks at Combeferre:

“Do you still want to stay to hear about your Future, Combeferre?” she asks amiably enough.

Combeferre startles - her hands are around Courfeyrac’s wrists for some reasons, and she’s clearly surprised that Grantaire is actually talking to her - until now, Grantaire’s words were for Enjolras only. After a second of hesitation, she nods and looks at Enjolras, who shrugs:

“I hope she’ll be more convincing with you that she’s been until now ,” she says, not even trying to restrain her cruel tongue no matter how much she usually despises it.

Courfeyrac hits her ankle, frowning. Enjolras doesn’t feel guilty - even less so when she hears Grantaire snort.

“You need to leave now, you’re giving off bad vibes in the room,” she says with strong mockery in her voice.

Enjolras barely nods to her friends and doesn’t acknowledge Grantaire’s last remark. She goes through the door, feelings that she doesn’t understand turning her mind into a mess. Her thoughts can’t settle, and she remembers vaguely the other angry woman who had left when they’d just arrived. Does she look like her now? It isn’t as if she’d come to this place with any kind of expectations, after all - but she _had_ wondered why she was supposed to come here, and even now it’s left unexplained.

“Enjolras, wait, please!”

Her hand still resting on the doorknob, Enjolras looks behind her. Bossuet is standing in the middle of the lobby, determination written all over his face. A large part of Enjolras thinks that she’s had enough for today and that she should just leave because she’s wasted enough time, but another, small part of her reminds her that Bossuet had been the only one apart from her looking annoyed by Grantaire. She sighs, and turns to face him.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I’m sorry for Grantaire,” he says, sounding sincere. “She’s - that’s just the way she reacts when she feels like she’s in a position of weakness. She prefers to act like an asshole rather than, you know, actually talk about what’s bothering her.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says, frowning. “If that’s all -”

“It’s not,” Bossuet sighs. He puts his hands into his pockets and looks at her pensively. “She’ll probably be angry at me for telling you, but it’s not like she’s going to do anything now, and I can’t let her risk her safety like that. She truly does need you, Enjolras.”

Enjolras doesn’t know whether to sigh or to scowl.

“So you all say - except her. And still without telling me _why,_ ” she says instead, carefully neutral.

“Well, I don’t mind explaining it to you,” Bossuet shrugs. “It’s very simple. You happen to be Grantaire’s Anchor.”

Enjolras stills as she feels electricity running through her body once more. Her eyes automatically move beyond Bossuet’s shoulder to look at the large “R” painted on the door of the left for a second before she shakes off the sudden feeling. She thinks she can faintly hear Combeferre exclaiming something, and Bossuet glances behind him too, as if he’d heard. He almost looks like he’s going to run back into the room but Enjolras catches his wrist, and he startles.

“Am I supposed to know what an Anchor is?” she asks. “I’ve heard the word before.”

“It’s not surprising,” Bossuet says. “Anchors are big in seer mythology. But I guess you’re not very familiar with that, huh?”

“I’m not,” Enjolras confirms curtly.

“An Anchor is the person who keeps a Seer from going mad because of their visions,” Bossuet says, looking at her with piercing eyes. “Each Seer has an Anchor. Not a lot of them actually find theirs, which is why everybody talks about “seer madness” to refer to someone who’s lost their mind.” He licks his lips, glances behind him again and repeats firmly: “You’re Grantaire’s Anchor.”

“Have you not just basically said that Anchors were a myth?” Enjolras asks, frowning again.

“I said they’re part of seer mythology,” Bossuet corrects her. “They’re as real as Seers themselves.”

Enjolras’ usual opinion about the _realness_ of Seers almost passes her lips before she remembers that it will probably means nothing to Bossuet, who works in a seer shop - not only that, but he seems to actually believe that Grantaire _is_ a Seer. So she purses her lips instead, looking critically at him:

“You think that I’m somehow… _fated_ to keep Grantaire from losing her mind?” she asks, and knows that she hasn’t hidden her scepticism well enough when Bossuet winces.

“I realize that it might sound absurd to someone who doesn’t believe in all of this,” he says, reasonably enough. “But yes. That’s what I think - what I know.”

Enjolras stays silent, trying to find a polite way to say that she has no intention of becoming some woman’s glorified babysitter because _Fate_ is asking it of her. Especially as their first meeting went so poorly. Surely if Fate had any real power, it would have made sure that they would both get along somehow. In any case, there is not much right now that sounds more unpleasant that the idea of having to talk with Grantaire again.

“Look,” Bossuet sighs, as if he'd read her thoughts. “I know I’m asking a lot but - please don’t give up on her? Let’s forget all about Fate if you want. Grantaire’s still a nice person when you get to know her, and I think you could like her if you gave her another chance.”

Enjolras doesn’t know why she doesn’t say “no”. Maybe it’s because Bossuet, underneath his apparent calm and pragmatism, looks like he’s holding on to his last hope. There is a hint of desperate eagerness in his eyes, and even though Enjolras tells herself that she owes the man nothing, she still feels like she can’t leave him like this.

“We meet every Friday at 8,” she says briskly and impulsively. “We, as in, Les Amis de l’ABC - Courfeyrac told you about it already I think. We always welcome new people.”

Bossuet looks stunned for a second only.

“We’ll be there,” he says, gratefulness coloring his voice. “Thank you, Enjolras.”

Enjolras nods stiffly, already regretting her decision.

“Ask Combeferre and Courfeyrac for details. And if you don’t mind, tell them I went home by my own means. I’ll see you on Friday.”

Bossuet offers her a cheerful smile and kisses her cheeks as proper goodbye. Enjolras follows through the motions, and can’t help but look one more time at the left door behind him. This time, she doesn’t feel anything. She scowls at herself for thinking, even for a second, that she should have, and when she finally leaves the shop, it is only with sharp relief clinging to her chest.

 

*

 

Enjolras doesn’t _consciously_ avoid her best friends during the next few days, but she’s acutely aware that this is exactly what happens. She doesn’t leave her room much when she’s home, choosing to work on her new project instead of joining Combeferre and Courfeyrac in the living-room, and she spends several hours outside, meeting with diverse people that might help her turn her ideas into an actual reality.

It feels wrong, planning something new and not discussing it with them. Enjolras knows that she’s at her best with her friends by her side, and she hasn’t even thought of doing something of that amplitude alone since she was fifteen. She’s always been secure in the knowledge that Combeferre and Courfeyrac were as dedicated and determined as her to change their world. She’s used to Combeferre’s quiet corrections and Courfeyrac’s imaginative solutions and she’s never ever felt reluctant to ask them for their opinions.

But things are weird - and although Enjolras knows it’s mostly due to her incapability of settling into a new dynamic between them, she thinks that this isn’t the sole reason. After all, since Monday, Combeferre and Courfeyrac haven’t tried to reach out for her either. They’d come back from the seer shop surprisingly silent, and Enjolras who had expected some remarks about her behaviour (and prepared counter-arguments for anything they might say to her) had ended up feeling unbalanced and troubled once more.

Several times during those days, she can almost hear Feuilly’s voice saying disapprovingly to her _“just talk to them”._ Enjolras knows it’s good advice (her internal Feuilly voice is usually the wisest of all) but the truth is that communicating her feelings has never been her forte, and even less so with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, with whom it’s usually so _easy_ to know where they stand. Nobody understand Enjolras better than them - they’re usually capable of knowing what she’s feeling with a _glance._ Maybe Enjolras has been spoiled by their mostly silent connection, but now that it seems broken, she has trouble using her words, especially to admit a weakness she’s so angry at.

It means that by Friday night, nothing is solved, and Combeferre, Courfeyrac and her bring the strange atmosphere that settled in their apartment to the backroom of the Musain and it doesn’t take more than five minutes for their other friends to notice it - even the members of Les Amis they’re less close to begin to frown and whisper between them after a while.

Enjolras firmly ignore them, and as soon as she’s greeted everybody, she sits at their usual table and waits for the official start of the meeting by checking that she has every paper she needs for the different points she means to rise in the course of the next hours. She’s only jerked back into reality when she hears Courfeyrac’s cheerful voice calling loudly for Bossuet.

She raises her eyes, both curious and wary about what she’s going to see, and watches as Bossuet enters the room with a wide smile and goes to meet Courfeyrac. For a short moment, she thinks he came alone, and she’s torn between relief and scorn, until Bossuet turns around to look behind him expectantly, and Grantaire appears, arm in arm with another man with light brown hair that falls on his eyes and a smile as large as Bossuet’s. They walk slowly, and Enjolras suspects that this is less a choice than a necessity, but whether it’s for the man - whose leg seems to follow the rest of his body a second too late, or for Grantaire, who looks terribly pale, almost sickly so, Enjolras can’t determine.

She tries to look away - Grantaire, Bossuet and their friend will introduce themselves at the beginning of the meeting if they want to, it’s a tradition of les Amis, and she’ll be able to observe them without feeling like she should be discreet about this then - but it’s hard to, and it gets impossible when Grantaire turns her head and their eyes meet. There’s no hostility or mockery in Grantaire’s look today, only a pensive glint that turns into wariness after a few seconds. Enjolras wonders what she can read in her own stare. She’s stuck to her chair, unwillingly trapped by Grantaire’s expressive face, by the shape of her crooked nose and the twisted curl of her mouth, by the contrast of her colorless cheeks and the dark circles underneath her clear eyes.

Even when Grantaire breaks contact to answer to something that her friend asked, Enjolras is incapable of going back to important matters. She keeps looking as Grantaire resumes walking, her shoulders tense and her head lowered as if she can feel Enjolras’ following her movements and is very much aware of every step she takes. She only pulls a chair for herself when she’s made sure her friend is sitting comfortably, and doesn’t try to find Enjolras’ eyes again.

It’s her friend who catches Enjolras observing Grantaire instead, and he smiles at her knowingly and hopefully. Enjolras, horrified, feels her cheeks pinkening, and wants to say - “No. No, this isn’t what you think, I’m still not buying the idea of Fate and Anchors” but she’s too far from him to be heard and when Bossuet sits next to him and kisses his cheek, the man seems to completely forget about Enjolras and her annoying fixation anyway.

Next to her, Combeferre clears her throat and rises, asking for everyone’s attention and announcing thereby the beginning of the meeting. Enjolras closes her eyes for a few seconds, and listens as her best friend lists what they’d like to talk about tonight - they always make sure to have a general idea of the subjects that will be discussed here, but as everybody can voice their opinions, suggestions and eventual projects, it’s not rare to derive from the initial plan at some point.

Combeferre is, as usual, calm and gentle and to the point, and by the time she’s done, Enjolras is finally back to herself and doesn’t feel particularly fascinated by the way Grantaire slightly slouches on the table and keeps her hands linked together anymore. When Courfeyrac asks, Bossuet cheerfully names himself, and his friend - partner, as he says himself - waves happily at the room and tells everybody to call him Joly. Grantaire doesn’t take the opportunity to talk; she simply shows her teeth playfully when her friends introduce her as “ _Grantaire, our grumpy cat_ ”.

Enjolras carefully doesn’t ask herself why Grantaire stayed silent. People coming for the first time always have the choice, and she’s never pondered on why they chose to introduce themselves or not before, so she’s not going to start _now._

From there, the meeting dissolves into its usual rumpus of voices. Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras lead the discussions, and although Enjolras can’t help but notice the hitch in the normally seamless way they handle things, she does her best not to let it show. They make sure that everybody stays in control, although they can’t keep Bahorel from punching the table at some point, which is his favourite way to show his exasperation at ignorance. It leads to a broken glass - Louison looks at Bahorel with fire in her eyes, but Jehan, as always, calms her down quickly by promising they’ll pay for it.Combeferre has to stop Courfeyrac from reaching to her lighter and burning the pamphlet Alicia received in the street by members of the UMP party and Gladys leaves the room, fuming, after Feuilly tells her that her idea isn’t nice “for the poor” but terribly self-centered.

Through this all, Enjolras still glances involuntarily to the table that Grantaire, Bossuet and Joly occupy. Joly and Bossuet actually start to voice their opinions after a while, mostly to agree with Feuilly’s sensitive arguments about how one who has never known poverty cannot talk louder about this than the struggling man next to him. Grantaire doesn’t open her mouth at all. Enjolras is almost sure she doesn’t even listen to what they say, which is frustrating.

Her suspicions are confirmed when she rises herself towards the end and talks a little bit about _Colère: Nom féminin_ and then observes carefully how people react to it, so she can determine who could eventually get behind her future project. When she arrives to Grantaire, the woman seems completely out of it, staring at the wall behind Enjolras with wide, flickering eyes, her hand shaking around her beer. Enjolras purses her lips and almost calls her out, but before she can, Grantaire startles and frowns before taking a large gulp of her drink and then looks at Enjolras again.

There seems to be a question in her stare that Enjolras is surprised to see - and quite confused by. She doesn’t know what Grantaire is trying to ask - whatever it is, Enjolras’ lack of answer makes Grantaire’s mouth curl downward again and her frown still hasn’t disappeared when Enjolras remembers that she was in the middle of an important survey of the room.

At half past ten, the meeting comes to its conclusion. Most people stand up to leave, chatting among themselves, but the core members of their group, as always, stay at their tables. From the corner of her eye, Enjolras sees Courfeyrac waving at Bossuet, Joly and Grantaire to stay where they are and, after quickly saying goodbye to Alicia, she moves towards them excitedly.

“Do you need help with the papers?” Combeferre asks Enjolras.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I want to organize them properly, but I can do it alone.”

She tells herself it’s not a dismissal and almost smiles when Combeferre pats her shoulder affectionately before standing up to join Courfeyrac. She wills herself not to look at Grantaire’s table again and focused her energy on gathering all the notes and documentation related to tonight’s discussions.

It’s not long enough to distract her forever though, and when she hears Courfeyrac burst into laughter, she can’t help but raises her eyes again. Everybody has gathered around the same table now, and Bahorel, his hand on Joly’s arm, is apparently giving him some fashion advice which are reducing Courfeyrac to tears as she hides her face into Combeferre’s shoulder. Bossuet and Joly looks both fascinated and amused. Feuilly is talking with Marius next to them, but she keeps rolling her eyes at Bahorel.

Grantaire is smirking. It’s a softer smirk than the one she wore for Enjolras - it looks as if she wants to smile, like her friends, but doesn’t quite know how. Alcohol has given her back some colors, and her eyes are shining. She seems content, and Enjolras is mesmerized for a moment all over again, because Grantaire’s face changes drastically with each expression she makes and all of them are just _interesting_ in a way Enjolras can’t understand at all.

“Are you okay, Enjolras?” a soft voice asks besides her.

Enjolras startles and looks at Jehan, who sits quietly in Combeferre’s forgotten chair. Embarrassed of not having spot them earlier, Enjolras shrugs and Jehan takes her hand.

“I’m fine,” she says, squeezing Jehan’s hand all the same.

“You’ve been looking at them for a while,” Jehan says. “But you haven’t join them.”

Enjolras knows what they are doing, of course. Jehan makes observations and waits for the other person to talk about it from there - it’s their _thing,_ Bahorel likes to say. They’re good at both listening and at letting things go if someone doesn’t want to grasp the opportunity and it’s what makes them the one who knows the most in the group, because it’s always easy to speak with them. Enjolras still hesitates for a second, but then Grantaire _laughs_. It’s loud and short - she quickly clasps her hand on her mouth to muffle the sound, but it’s definitely happy and sincere this time, and it shakes Enjolras to the core.

“You know a lot about all sort of mythologies, don’t you Jehan?” she asks.

“I’ve read a lot of books, yes,” Jehan says.

“What do you you think of Anchors?” Enjolras asks slowly.

“I think they’re beautiful,” Jehan says, not even sounding surprised about the question. Enjolras would turn to look at them, but her eyes are fixed on Grantaire again despite herself. “They’re synonym of hope,” Jehan continues, enthusiasm creeping into their voice. “In seer mythology, Seers are always conscious that they have little time to live before their visions consume them. They lose their sanity slowly and because they are born with a gift, they’re destined to a tragic ending. Except if they find their Anchor. One person, in the entire world, that can offer them everything they shouldn’t have - peace of mind, chance of living in the present, _and_ assurance that they will know the Future they’ve seen. Anchors are the first version of soulmates; and soulmates stories always have the potential to be marvellous or terrible. In the best of cases, both.”

“I’ve never liked soulmates stories much,” Enjolras says softly. “The idea of being forced to be with someone you didn’t chose -”

“Someone perfect for you,” Jehan points out nicely enough.

Enjolras sighs, and watches as Grantaire leans on the side to whisper something to Bossuet, who looks at her with concern and nods.

“Come on,” She tells Jehan, pulling on their hand gently. “Let’s go join the others.”

 

*

 

It feels like Enjolras should think about this more, truly, but far from Grantaire, the fascination and urgency of knowing what she stumbled into subside, and she actually starts to organize seriously her new project after an enthusiastic call from the head of _Colère: nom féminin_ on Sunday. From there, days pass quickly, and she still spends most of them in her room, speaking with a numerous amount of people. However, it’s not until Wednesday that they decide that a large march against street harassment might be the best and most productive plan to put into place. Enjolras feels alight, excited and impatient, and though she knows she should probably take a break, she can’t help but look at _what’s next_ and dives right into it.

She’s talking with Adeline Manfort on the phone about a possible itinerary when Courfeyrac starts to sing loudly in the living-room, interrupting her in the middle of a speech about the advantages of _Les Champs Elisées_ as the point of departure.

“What’s that?” Adeline asks at the other end of the phone, sounding both amused and surprised.

Enjolras can feel her cheeks redden with embarrassment.

“My roommate,” she answers. “I’m sorry, I’m at home, and the walls aren’t as thick as I would like them to be.”

“It’s alright,” Adeline says. “I might agree with you about _Les Champs Elisées_ , Enjolras, but what about _ending_ the march there, instead of starting it? Authorities might be less unwilling if they know this is supposed to be the end of our protest. Besides, think about what the - Is that _I feel like a woman_?”

Enjolras grits her teeth, glaring unnecessarily at her close door.

“It is,” she says and then sighs. “I’m sorry Adeline, may I call you back in a moment? I’ll try to find a less distracting place to talk.”

“Of course,” Adeline says. “We have time, you know. We could plan this for next month, it _is_ a possibility.”

“I know,” Enjolras says with a small smile. “But I’d really like it if it happened as soon as possible.”

Adeline laughs: “It doesn’t surprise me much. Call me back tonight Enjolras, or maybe tomorrow. _Au revoir_.”

Once she’s hanged up, Enjolras leaves her room immediately, irritated, to follow Courfeyrac’s voice through the flat. She stops when she arrives in the living-room, taking in the sight in front of her. Courfeyrac is not only singing, she’s also dancing through the room, a wood spoon in her hand. She’s in her favourite pink sweatsuit, and her usually carefully coiffed curls are flat, making her hair longer; they seem to float around her face as she jumps on the couch. It’s rare, to see Courfeyrac like this - Enjolras would wonder why she felt like doing this today, but she’s still annoyed at Courfeyrac’s involuntarily interruption of her work and frowns instead.

“Courfeyrac!”

Courfeyrac wavers on the couch, blinks, and turns her head to look at Enjolras. She grins.

“ _Enjolras!_ What are you doing here?”

“I’m trying to work,” Enjolras says, knowing she sounds snappish. “Would you mind quiet down a bit?”

Courfeyrac’s smile quickly disappear. She climbs down the couch, and crosses her arms on her chest, raising her chin a little. Enjolras tenses; this is Courfeyrac’s fighting pose.

“Why?” Courfeyrac asks with a challenging tone, confirming Enjolras’ feeling. “It’s my home, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s mine too,” Enjolras points out between her teeth.

“Really?” Courfeyrac says, her mouth curling downwards as she takes a step to Enjolras . “It’s not like we have seen you around much those days, right? I was starting to wonder if you had moved out without telling us.”

“I have _work,”_ Enjolras says.

“What work?” Courfeyrac asks. “It’s July, Enjolras, none of us has work! So what’s keeping you in your room?”

“You know full well that my work doesn’t end with university!” Enjolras snaps finally. “There are ABC things to take care of and -”

“Aren’t we supposed to take care of ABC business together?” Courfeyrac snaps too. “As far as I remember, this is _our_ association, and I don’t remember anything pressing right now.”

“Well of course you _wouldn’t,_ ” Enjolras says.

She immediately regrets it, but it’s too late. Courfeyrac makes herself taller, looking at Enjolras furiously.

“What does _that_ mean?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras says.

“No, I want to know what you think!” Courfeyrac says loudly. “What, Enjolras, are you having doubts about my investment in ABC? About _Combeferre’s_ , too, maybe?”

“ _No,”_ Enjolras says even though she realizes, with a hollow feeling in her chest, that she means “yes.”

“Good,” Courfeyrac snarls. “Because it would be _really_ shitty of you to assume that just because we’re together now we’re _any less_ into this than you!”

“Well,” Enjolras says angrily, “It’s not like I’ve seen you do a lot those days, is it?”

“And how would you?” Courfeyrac asks, glaring at her. “You’ve been _avoiding_ us since last week, you have no idea of what we do!”

“I have a pretty good idea, haven’t I?” Enjolras retorts. “I’m _sorry_ I’m not comfortable enough to join you in your all new, shiny couple bubble!”

Courfeyrac seems curiously satisfied by the turn of the conversation. She looks at Enjolras straight in the eye, and her voice is dangerously calm when she speaks again:

“So we’re finally talking about the true issue with all this, then. Have you got a problem with Combeferre and me being together, Enjolras?”

Enjolras stares at her, paling.

“No,” she says, and wishes with all her heart that she was truly sincere.

“We’re your best friends,” Courfeyrac says, her voice shaking as if she knows what’s really on Enjolras’ mind (and she probably does). “We love you. We also happen to love each other. We’re _happy,_ I’m so fucking happy, Enjolras, why _aren’t you?_ What reason could you possible have for not being happy for us? Did you like it better when we were pining and miserable? Did it make you feel good when we were trying to ignore our feelings and diving into _work_ instead? Is that really all that matters to -”

“Stop!” Enjolras yells, her hands curling into fists, guilt and anger fighting in her stomach. “Stop fucking _doing_ that, trying to _manipulate_ me into feeling ashamed! You think you’re so good with people, Courfeyrac, but what you’re really good at is at making them feel what _you_ want them to feel! You want me to tell you I feel _weird_ around you two? Well, yes! Yes I do! But don’t you dare imply that I don’t _care_ for your happiness!”

“So what?” Courfeyrac shouts back. “You’re just going to avoid us until your delicate sensibilities are under control again? When that’s going to be? You know what, Enjolras, you say I’m not as good with people as I think? Maybe! But you’re _atrocious!_ You have this idea of how _things should be,_ and as soon as something doesn’t fit what you imagined, you completely shut it out and that’s not how it works! That’s not how _humans_ work and frankly, for someone who calls herself so _progressive_ you’re awful with change that doesn’t suit you! Would it kill you to try to be _human,_ Enjolras?”

Enjolras just stares at her, face turned into stone. Courfeyrac has moved while she was speaking, and she’s very close to Enjolras now, her cheeks red with anger, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Her fingers are shaking, and Enjolras knows that if she had a lighter right now, she’d probably burn something up - it’s Courfeyrac’ favourite way to calm down, no matter how dangerous it is.

“Are you done?” Enjolras asks quietly, coldly.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac answers curtly.

“Good. I’m going out then. Try not to burn the flat down before Combeferre comes back.”

“You little -” she hears Courfeyrac growls under her breath but she’s already crossing the living-room, fleeing her best friend, not caring what shoes and jacket she puts on before getting out, not feeling petty enough to slam the door behind her.

In retrospect, she thinks, walking blindly in the street, she should have expected something like that to happen. The atmosphere have been tense for too long, and it was bound to explode sooner or later. Still. It _hurts._ She’s still so angry at Courfeyrac, and yet she also feels completely lost. They don’t argue often, Courfeyrac and her, although it’s less rare than with Combeferre. Each time is more painful that any fight Enjolras ever had. She hates it, she hates it so much, but _how_ can Courfeyrac even _think_ that Enjolras wouldn’t erase the weirdness if she could?

She _is_ happy for them; she wishes she could have said that. She’s happy for Combeferre’s perpetual little smile those days, and she’s happy for Courfeyrac’s sparkling eyes. She’s happy they found each other. She just feels like she has no place in their happiness.

She goes to the Musain, because it’s the only other place apart from the flat that feels like home. Louison, behind the bar, takes one look at her, frowns, and make her a large sweet cup of coffee and gently squeezes her wrist when Enjolras tries to pay, telling her that it’s _“on the house”_ for today.

Enjolras thanks her with the shadow of a smile and goes to sit. After a moment, she takes her phone out and calls Adeline back. The conversation lasts longer than she’s anticipated, but two hours later, she feels better at the idea that they have an itinerary. The only things missing are a date and a permit (and, perhaps, some more allies from other associations) and everything will be good.

Having settled this, for a while, makes her more optimistic about her personal situation. She goes back home with the vague idea of seeking out Courfeyrac and talking this out more properly this time, even if she still feels resentful over her last words. Once she’s arrived, however, she hesitates again, stopped in her tracks by the scene that welcomes her in the living-room.

Combeferre is home, and Courfeyrac and her are cuddling on the couch in front of the TV. Enjolras can see Combeferre’s lips move against Courfeyrac’s hair, and she must say something funny because Courfeyrac snorts and hides her nose a bit more into Combeferre’s collarbone. Combeferre is smiling, her eyes fixed on her girlfriend with boundless affection and tenderness, and although Enjolras can’t see Courfeyrac’s face clearly, she can guess her grin and warm look. Something in Enjolras snaps, and perhaps for the first time in her life, she hates herself a little.

Courfeyrac is right, of course she is. Why can’t she _just_ be happy?

She turns away from them, tired and frustrated by her own emotions, and walks to her room in silence. She can still do more for the march - at least she is good at that.

 

*

 

On Friday, nothing has changed.

If anything, Enjolras thinks she managed to make it worse. Courfeyrac has clearly decided that Enjolras should be the one to come forward, but Enjolras refuses to speak until she can be sure that the words stuck in her throat won’t betray her. It means that she avoids her best friends even more, which feeds Courfeyrac’s anger and makes Combeferre look tired and annoyed.

Unlike their last meeting, there is no way to hide the tension between them. Enjolras arrives early and alone, which makes Louison frowns, even though she tactfully says nothing about it. Even once they’re here, Combeferre and Courfeyrac only put down their bags at the table before hurrying off elsewhere. Well, it’s not completely true - Courfeyrac does, without sparing her a glance, and goes to sit dramatically on Jehan’s lap. Combeferre hovers for a moment more, staring intently at Enjolras like she’s waiting for her to do something, but when Enjolras stubbornly keeps her eyes on her phone in silence, she sighs and moves away too.

Combeferre deserves more, Enjolras thinks, than what she’s been giving her. Combeferre came to her, last night, and told her with soft, understanding eyes: _“I had planned to have this conversation with you myself.”_ It was an opening, and Enjolras hadn’t taken it, muttering: _“I never wanted to have this conversation.”_ Now she’s reminded of her friend’s sigh (not unlike the one of today) and her resigned tone as she’d answered: _“I know. I believe this is a large part of the problem. Come here.”_ before hugging her. Combeferre gives wonderful hugs, and as the memory of last night plays out in her mind, Enjolras can’t help but regret not having made this one last longer.

The tense atmosphere seems to reverberate on everybody, which is exactly what Enjolras was afraid of. People are subdued, oddly silent or only whispering as they wait for the meeting to begin. It feels wrong; the backroom of Le Musain is many things, but quiet is certainly not one of them.

It’s usually Courfeyrac who makes sure that there is a good ambiance in the room at all time. Enjolras can say whatever she wants, Courfeyrac _is_ their people person, and when she’s unhappy, everybody’s mood seems to suffer too. Enjolras knows that this isn’t going to be an easy meeting and if she was anybody else, she would probably give in and not even start it. But ABC is more important than personal feuds and she knows - hopes - that Courfeyrac hasn’t forgotten that.

“Why is everybody looking so sad?” a voice that’s slowly becoming familiar asks, particularly loud in the midst of so many whispers.

Enjolras raises her eyes to see that Bossuet and Joly have arrived. Bossuet’s arm is casually put around Joly’s waist and both of their happy smiles froze as they take in the morose ambiance. Behind them, Grantaire stands with half-closed eyes. She looks so tired that Enjolras wonders how the hell she’s able to stay on her feet. When she wavers, Enjolras instinctively rises from her chair, but Grantaire catches Joly’s shoulder, shakes her head, and her friends lead her to the table they sat to last week.

“Everybody’s sad because everybody’s being an idiot,” Combeferre says to Bossuet when he remarks that nobody has answered him.

“Preach, sister,” Grantaire snorts and then she raises her eyes and actually looks at Enjolras.

Enjolras certainly feels like an idiot, standing up for no reason. Grantaire might look exhausted, but her eyes are shining and piercing, so clear under the natural light of the sun coming from the windows behind Enjolras, and they made her feel as unbalanced as before. She doesn’t want to get pull into the same spell as last week, and so with some difficulty, she nods curtly at Grantaire, who raises a surprised eyebrow but nods back with a smirk, and then forces herself to look away from her.

“We should probably begin,” she says to Combeferre.

It’s not eight yet, but everybody’s here, and Enjolras figures that, with little goodwill, they can still make sure that the meeting isn’t a disaster. Combeferre looks at door, then at Courfeyrac, and shrugs.

“Very well,” she says, and begins her usually speech, attracting the attention of the rest of the room.

For a while, it seems like things are actually going to work out. As soon as Combeferre begins to speak, Courfeyrac leaves Jehan with a kiss on their cheek and comes back to their table, taking her usual place at Enjolras’ left side. There’s no way to hide that their usual synchronisation is completely off, but they have a routine and they stick to it anyway; Combeferre gives the topic, Courfeyrac explains why this particular topic needs to be talked about, and then Enjolras asks for everybody’s opinion, which starts the debates.

The room isn’t quiet at all anymore. People are won over by the power of familiarity and enthusiasm, and Enjolras feels immensely grateful for all of them, for their passions and their ideas and their will to change things together. It makes her passionate in turn, and even though she usually leaves to her friends most of the speaking, preferring to listen rather than to talk, she gets enrolled into a rather fierce discussion on willful ignorance.

“People are afraid,” Enjolras answers when Theo groans loudly _why can’t people just see that they’re wrong, for fuck’s sake._ “People were taught that change is frightening. It’s easier to be blind than to care. It doesn’t mean that we cannot help them open their eyes - or, their ears - by being as visible and loud as we can. It will come a time when our voices will be too strong to be ignored; an individual might not be convinced by another individual, despite reason and logic, but he will be won over by a crowd, if not by the mind, then by his heart.”

“What’s the point of winning if your individual is not convinced?” Grantaire asks in the silence that follows Enjolras’ words. Enjolras looks at her, mildly surprised. Grantaire is slouched on her chair, staring at her with boredom in her eyes, which immediately irks Enjolras.

“What do you mean?” she asks anyway, because she ought to let Grantaire express her opinions, as it is everybody’s right.

“There’s no glory in victory,” Grantaire says, letting her cheek rest into the palm of her hand as she leans on her table. “The true miracle is to convince, and I call it a miracle because it never happens. Sure, people get swayed by mass movements and opinions. Doesn’t mean their mentality change. Men gave us the equality bill because our moms were all _visible and loud,_ like you said, but do they actually think we’re equals? Read the youtube comment section of any female videos and you’ll see the answer is a resonant _No_.”

“And this is why progress doesn’t come only with battles but also with education,” Enjolras says, looking at Grantaire intensely. “Combeferre can tell you all about that. It doesn’t mean that fighting for what is right isn’t important and needed. Victory, as you said, _is_ the first step to every change. Once the battle is won, then you can start to work on convincing instead of imposing.”

“My actual point is that people aren’t going to be convinced if they don’t want to,” Grantaire says. “Look at you, for example. You don’t look like a girl who can be convinced of anything. You’ve got your ideas set in stone, and you wouldn’t be willing to change them, however wrong they might turn out to be, or how incompatible they actually are with the real world.”

Enjolras tenses despite herself, the words hitting her like a slap. It’s too close from what Courfeyrac told her on Wednesday, too close to _home._ Anger rises up again, and she feels her face turning into marble. She wants to answer to Grantaire, but Combeferre puts her hand on her arm.

“I’m sorry Grantaire, but we try to stay away from any personal attacks during our meetings,” she says calmly, and before Grantaire can say anything, she swiftly changes the topic of conversation.

It should be the end of it, but Enjolras’ pride has been touched, and Grantaire is obviously feeling antagonistic, which leads them to have several almost arguments, all of them being avoided because their friends turn the conversation around. Grantaire, Enjolras discovers, is very elusive about what she thinks; her only goal seems to be contrary, not to actually speak her mind. Her arguments are cheap and provocative, although Enjolras can see through some of her examples that she _is_ knowledgeable, which makes her goading but empty words even more irritating.

Still, _somehow_ they manage to go through the meeting without any real fight, and by the time Enjolras rises up again to make her official announcement about the march, Grantaire has fallen silent again, and she stares at her table with a sullen air, her eyes flickering quickly, her fingers shaking slightly around her can of beer.

Enjolras tries to ignore the electric shiver that passes through her spine, and looks at the whole room instead.

“As I’m sure most of you are aware, there has been a lot of discussions lately about street harassment, especially after the creation of _Colère: Nom féminin_ and several videos in the USA testifying that this phenomena is _not_ an exaggeration of women - which, of course, we already knew - but a real problem of society that makes so many of us afraid of being alone in the street, or uncomfortable in crowded metros. To raise even more awareness about this and to protest our right not to be constantly harassed in our daily life, _Osez le féminisme, Colère: Nom féminin_ and other feminist associations have decided to organize an impromptu march next Thursday. It will begin at 10 in the morning near _l’Hôtel des Invalides._ ”

She takes a brief pause, glances at Courfeyrac, who’s looking furious all over again, and then at Combeferre, who’s frowning quietly. She doesn’t sigh, nor say she’s sorry.

“Although I did help organizing this as one of the leaders of ABC, this is a personal project of mine, and so I’m not telling any of you that you should be here as part of this group. If you’re interested in participating, however, a quick preparation meeting will be held here from eight to nine thirty on Thursday. Thank you very much to all of you for coming tonight, you’re free to go now.”

People get up, talking with more or less excited tones about the march. Enjolras sits down, and the stares of her two best friends pierce her immediately.

“Are you _serious_ right now?” Courfeyrac hisses through her teeth. “ _This_ is what you’ve been working on behind ours backs?”

“It wasn’t behind your backs,” Enjolras snaps in hushed tones. “It was a personal project.”

“You used ABC!” Courfeyrac whispers angrily.

“Everybody I talked to was aware that I was doing this on my own,” Enjolras says. “I made it clear that I was alone on this.”

“But you didn’t have to be,” Combeferre says and the disappointment in her voice hurts Enjolras as much as Courfeyrac’s anger.

“I cannot deal with you right now,” Courfeyrac says and jumps of her chair, calling out “Marius!” a bit too loud, making the poor boy startling hard.

Enjolras looks at her in silence. She feels Combeferre’s hand settling on her wrist.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this but we will have to, at some point. We love you, Enjolras. You love us. But if we don’t start to communicate, we’re just going to keep hurting each other like this, intentionally or not. I’m sorry you felt like you had to go into this alone. I hope you know we would have been glad to join you.” she says quietly.

Enjolras just keeps looking at Courfeyrac, who’s hugging Marius while talking into his chest. Marius is patting her on the back and looks rather sad and offended on her behalf.

“I’m sorry,” she says after a moment, her voice feeling foreign to her own ears.

Combeferre kisses her forehead.

“Just think about what I just said,” she says. “I need to see something with Feuilly about her plans on immigration policies. We’ll talk more tonight.”

For a rather long moment, Enjolras doesn’t move from her chair. Instead, she looks at all of her friends distantly, thoughts clashing in her mind, making it impossible to just settle down quietly. She doesn’t feel angry or sad or guilty anymore. Instead, she’s remotely aware that she is at some sort of turning point, and that she should probably start to make the right decisions.

Her eyes inevitably fall on Grantaire. She looks agitated - her lips are moving rapidly even if she’s not making a sound, and she’s shivering. Bossuet and Joly keep glancing at her with matching frowns. This is, surprisingly, what makes Enjolras come back to herself. Something deep inside her is screaming that Grantaire doesn’t look good, and that she should do something about it.

She has barely made the conscious decision to get up and see if she’s okay that Grantaire suddenly rises, and looks right back at Enjolras before slowly moving toward her with brisk, awkward movements. Enjolras frowns and stands up too.

“Are you okay?” she asks when Grantaire is close enough.

Grantaire blinks and glances around her quickly, as if she has no idea how she arrived here, but the lost glint in her eyes disappears as soon as she looks again at Enjolras. Instead, she smirks.

“Are we allowed to have proper arguments now?” she says.

“I don’t want to have an argument,” Enjolras says.

“You don’t?” Grantaire says, frowning like she doesn’t understand.

“Of course not,” Enjolras sighs, trying not to sound irritated. “Why would you even think that?”

Grantaire looks briefly to the left and then presses her fingernails hard into her wrist, shaking her head.

“Well, I don’t know,” she says, “being silent didn’t work, and I’m good at annoying people and you seemed happy when everybody was arguing so -”

“I’m happy hearing people’s opinions,” Enjolras says, taken aback by Grantaire’s sullen voice. “You were just trying to antagonize me, it’s not the same thing.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, sounding breathless. “Yes, apparently, it wasn’t - you’re still - but. I don’t - _don’t -_ Enjolras, you’re -”

Grantaire stops talking, paling even more. She’s shivering really hard again, and her eyes can’t seem to settle on anything.

“What I am?” Enjolras asks, this time truly worried by Grantaire’s odd behaviour.

“You’re burning,” Grantaire gasps, looking somewhere behind Enjolras’ shoulder. “Why are you still burning, always, always it wasn’t - no. No! I’m trying, I’m trying please stop -” she lets out a sob, and buries her fingers into her hair. “I’m trying, why - please stop, I’ll be good, I’ll be -”

“Grantaire, _stop,_ ” Enjolras says, incapable of hearing more, and puts her hands around Grantaire’s wrists.

Grantaire obeys immediately. She gasps again and looks at Enjolras with wide, red-rimmed eyes. Then, she glances at Enjolras’ hands. Enjolras tries to remove them, but Grantaire only takes them back and intertwines their fingers together. She takes a deep breath and brings them on her cheeks before closing her eyes. Stunned but also somewhat aware that she _needs_ this, Enjolras doesn’t move, and just looks over Grantaire’s head to see that all of their friends are whispering frantically, apparently trying very hard not to stare at them.

“Grantaire,” she repeats after a moment, her voice softer.

Grantaire blinks and seems to come back to reality. Face flushing, she immediately releases Enjolras and takes a step back.

“Care to explain what was that?” Enjolras asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Grantaire says with an abrupt tone. “I need - I need to go now.”

She flees the room without looking at Enjolras again or at anybody else. After a shared glance, Joly and Bossuet rise from their chair at the same time, say goodbye quickly, and hurry behind her. Enjolras just stares at them, speechless.

“So, this was intense.” Bahorel says. “What the hell did we just see?”

“The development of a soulmates story, I suspect.” Jehan says softly.

 

*

 

As Enjolras suspected, the next week passes in the blink of an eye. Organizing such a big event in such a short time requires a lot of determination and work, and Enjolras decides to put all of her energy into it, because this is familiar, this is _good,_ and she knows exactly what she’s supposed to do (unlike in other, more personal areas of her life).

However, she doesn’t do it alone.

On Saturday morning, she sits at the kitchen table at the same time as her best friends, which she hadn’t done in a while, and offers coffee (with two sugars) to Courfeyrac and a cup of tea (with some milk) to Combeferre. They both raise their eyebrows at the same time, which makes them look bemused rather than expectant because it’s morning and that none of them have always been good with those, and it almost makes Enjolras smile.

“I was an idiot,” she says. “If there’s one thing I should never have done, it’s doubting your willingness to keep changing things through ABC. I was wondering if you would help me for the final preparations of the march this week?”

Combeferre smiles, and brings the cup of tea to her lips, taking a sip before reaching out to brush her fingers against Enjolras’.

“Of course,” she says.

Courfeyrac takes more time. She’s frowning, and Enjolras tries her best not to look hesitant or waiting. Instead she drinks her own cup of coffee in silence. She reminds herself that Courfeyrac loves ABC, loves what they fight for, and even if Enjolras is still not giving her what she’d like, is _aware_ that she’s tiptoeing around the real issue once more, this is a step forward. Finally, after an unnecessary among of time and a little elbowing from Combeferre, Courfeyrac sighs.

“I’m still upset,” she says, looking at Enjolras seriously. “You’re _still_ being an idiot. But yeah, of course I’ll help. What do you need us to do?”

After that, things are easier, if not completely settled. Combeferre, Courfeyrac and her work as they always have, spend endless hours on the phone or on Skype, verify that the itinerary is good by going through it themselves on Tuesday. The permit is finally given on Wednesday, and by Thursday morning, Enjolras is vibrant with energy, and steps into the Musain with hope and dreams of what they could do singing in her mind.

“Shit, Enjolras try to shine a little less, some of us are still trying to wake up,” Bahorel laughs when she goes to him, Jehan and Feuilly to greet them.

“You _are_ radiant,” Jehan notes with a grin. “Does this mean everything is is going fine?”

“It should,” Enjolras says, kissing all three of them properly on the cheeks. “There’s no reason not to, the only thing we can’t be sure of is the number of people coming, but I think we’ve done enough publicity not to have to worry about it.”

There isn’t actually a lot of people in the backroom today, but Combeferre, Courfeyrac and her had talked about it the night before, and it’s not that surprising. The march is the important part of the day, and this meeting is only to handle banners and maybe chose some strategic places during the event in itself, things that a lot of people won’t deemed significant enough to get up early for. It’s alright. Enjolras makes sure to greet everybody that’s here and she’s pleasantly surprised when she sees Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire, as well as another beautiful dark-skinned woman sitting in the far corner of the room, chatting and eating breakfast.

“Hi,” she says with a smile, her eyes immediately inspecting Grantaire despite herself. “I didn’t know you were coming, I’m glad to see you.”

Grantaire looks mildly surprised but raises her coffee silently in salute. She’s still so pale, the shadows under her eyes have grown even more since last week, and Enjolras thinks that she should probably talk to her properly once the march is over. She still doesn’t believe that Grantaire is a Seer, or that she’s supposed to magically make it better, but clearly the woman is sick, and Enjolras can try to help, somehow - maybe by convincing her she needs a doctor, not a miracle cure.

“We wouldn’t have missed it!” Joly says to her cheerfully. “I don’t think you’ve met Musichetta yet?”

“I haven’t,” Enjolras says, turning away from Grantaire to smile politely at the woman next to Bossuet. “I’m Enjolras, one of the co-founders of ABC, thank you for coming today.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Musichetta says with deep rich voice and amused eyes. “I’m Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet’s partner.”

“I hope you don’t mind us eating breakfast here?” Bossuet asks. “It was a bit early for everybody.”

“It’s no problem,” Enjolras says. “We’re going to wait a bit more before properly explaining all the proceedings. You can join us when you’re finished.”

Enjolras leave them with one last smile and goes back to the main tables they put in the middle of the room, which is now largely occupied by a map of Paris, several empty white banners, and pencils and paintbrushes of all sort. Feuilly and Combeferre and bend over the map, Combeferre tracing with her finger the different streets they’re going to take, and the several places they’re hoping to make the most noises at. Jehan, sitting right next to them, is writing something in the little notebook they always bring to events like this. Bahorel, Courfeyrac and Alicia are loudly talking of numbers and everybody else is scattered around, talking about the march with a mix of laughter and seriousness that warms Enjolras’ chest.

After a little while, Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta wander towards them, and Enjolras glances at Grantaire, but she’s half-slouched on her breakfast table, holding her forehead in her hands, and doesn’t seem ready to come over. Enjolras purses her lips and tells herself it’s okay.

“Shouldn’t we start with the banners?” Jehan asks after a while.

“Probably,” Enjolras says and turns to Courfeyrac. “Where are the paints?”

Courfeyrac looks a little sheepish: “Um, with Marius?”

“And where _is_ Marius?” Combeferre asks sternly.

“That’s… Actually a great question, seeing that he isn’t answering my texts,” Courfeyrac says and then, under the twin stares of Enjolras and Combeferre, hastily adds: “But we can begin anyway! We’ve got plenty of markers, i’m sure he’ll be here soon enough!”

Without any other choices, it’s exactly what they do, and they start to fill the banners in a good-natured ambiance, which still doesn’t make Enjolras any less irritated at Marius when the boy finally arrive, almost twenty minutes later.

“Marius, you’re late,” she says, perhaps a bit snappish.

“Sorry,” Marius says in a distracted tone, his eyes scanning the room with a hopeful and dreamy glint in them. “I brought the paint.”

“Is something wrong?” Courfeyrac asks, frowning. She puts a hand on his arm, and Marius startles hard.

“Boy,” Joly laughs, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” When Marius doesn’t seem to react, Joly stops laughing, looking at him more eagerly. “ _Have you_ seena ghost? Where? I’ve been hoping to make experiences about them for so long -”

Marius doesn’t seem to care at all about Joly’s tirade. Soon enough, his eyes settle on something behind him, and, without caring about anybody else, he goes directly there with a shy grin. Enjolras knows immediately where he’s going, because she’s been eyeing the same corner discreetly since they’ve started writing. Grantaire, who hasn’t moved from her chair at all, to Enjolras’ odd disappointment, seems to light up absurdly when Marius comes to her.

“You met her!” she exclaims gleefully.

“You know about her!” Marius says with a delighted tone of his own. “Can you tell me more? I didn’t even catch her name!”

“Sit down!” Grantaire tells him, clearly amused, and then the both of them lean toward each other and begin to whisper excitedly, Marius waving his hands in all directions, his cheeks pink.

“A girl,” Courfeyrac says, half-intrigued, half-annoyed. “Really?”

“Let them talk,” Feuilly says. “We’ve got to finish this, we have to leave in less than an hour now.”

“Enjolras?” Combeferre says more quietly, her fingers brushing Enjolras’ back.

Enjolras snaps back into herself and finally turns away from the sight of Marius and Grantaire, irritated that, once again, she seems to have trouble ignoring Grantaire completely. She’s kind of gathered from the weeks before that Grantaire isn’t coming to the meetings because she’s truly interested - she shouldn’t be surprised _now_ that Grantaire doesn’t participate. She probably came here this morning only to go to the march with her friends later, and it’s her right. After all, Enjolras doesn’t begrudge the people who decided to sleep a bit more instead of being here, so why should she be angry at Grantaire?

Still - she remembers the pleased feeling in her chest when she’d spotted the woman earlier, and she can’t help but cast one last irked look towards Grantaire, who has now taken hold of Marius’ wrist and is muttering something with a soft smile and far-away eyes.

Enjolras scowls, firmly ignoring the strange knot in her stomach and the shiver that runs down her spine, and goes back to the banners. People quickly become a bit too creative with the paint, (Bahorel decides that banners are too small and puts his two hands on Feuilly’s cheeks, leaving her with dripping red paint on her skin. Jehan has to intervene before it ends up in an unforgiving paint battle) and Enjolras’ attention is fully occupied for the next thirty minutes.

Around nine thirty, everything is done and ready, and Enjolras, surrounded by everybody’s cheerful conversations and Combeferre’s gentle humming of _Ca Ira,_ feels elated all over again, her heart already beating faster in her chest. They all start to move in mass, grabbing their belongings before slowly leaving the room.

Enjolras stays behind to make sure that nobody has forgotten anything, and she’s so busy looking after the group that she almost doesn’t hear Courfeyrac calling Marius out.

“Come on, Pontmercy, time to go!”

Enjolras glances to the scene behind her. Grantaire’s fingers are drumming nervously on the table, and Marius casts a guilty look at Courfeyrac.

“Yeah - about that - I was thinking, maybe I’m not going to come,” he says.

“What?” Courfeyrac and Enjolras exclaim at the same time.

Marius gets up, his cheeks as red as Enjolras’ top, and stares at them both with huge, pleading eyes. It’s cheating, Enjolras thinks, because she’s pretty sure that Courfeyrac is the one who taught him how to do that - although Marius does manage to look far more innocent that Courfeyrac ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I met - I met the most incredible girl this morning, and I really need to find her again.”

“Can’t this wait?” Enjolras asks, more bemused than angry. “You can search for her all you want after the march, but this is important, Marius! More important than -”

“You don’t understand!” Marius says, his voice getting higher as he looks at Enjolras determinedly. “You can’t understand, because you’ve never fallen in love, Enjolras, but I - God, you should have _seen_ her, the way she smiled at me, she was so gentle, and her eyes - it feels like rediscovering the world all over again!”

Enjolras just turns to Courfeyrac for help. If anyone’s going to put some senses into him, it’s her - they’re close, Marius and Courfeyrac - Courfeyrac has always seemed to be the only one to understand him and, perhaps because of that, she’s the only one in the group he seems to really feel comfortable with.

“But what if she _is_ at the march?” Courfeyrac says. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Grantaire says it’s very unlikely,” Marius says.

“Oh do whatever you want,” Courfeyrac says, rolling her eyes before glancing at her watch. “It’s not like I can stop you when you’ve decided something anyway. Come on Enjolras, we’ll be late soon, they must be waiting for us.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Enjolras says.

She doesn’t know why she wants so badly for Marius to see reason. If Courfeyrac believes he won’t come, why would she waste her time trying to convince him? She looks down at Grantaire, who’s still sitting. The woman keeps watching Marius with a rather proud glint in her eyes, and it puts Enjolras on edge.

“Are you really not going because Grantaire told you?” she asks finally.

_That_ gets a reaction of Grantaire who turns slightly to look at Enjolras, frowning.

“Well - I mean - yes,” Marius says, like it’s _obvious._ “R’s a Seer, she knows better than -”

“Grantaire is not in her shop right now, is she?” Enjolras says, her voice getting sharper. “She’s right here, for the march, like _all of us_ -”

“ _Actually,_ ” Grantaire cuts in, “Grantaire thinks that it might not be a good idea to go to that march after all.”

Enjolras freezes for a short moment, completely forgetting about Marius to stare openly at Grantaire. Grantaire looks right back at her, defiance and distress fighting behind her eyes.

“Excuse-me?” Enjolras says, aware that her voice is suddenly colder.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Grantaire says. “I - You shouldn’t go, either.”

“Grantaire, if you’re trying to stir up an argument again, it’s really not a good moment, we’re going to be late already, don’t try to - to _joke_ or -”

“I’m not joking!” Grantaire snaps, raising from her chair at last, her fingers curling up shakingly around her t-shirt. “Listen, Enjolras, something bad is going to happen, alright? I can - I can feel it, it’s going to be today, and I don’t - you keep _burning,_ ” she says, distress clearly winning over defiance this time. “There’s only the march today, so if something bad happens, it’s going to be there, and if you go you might - _please,_ don’t go.”

“Are you seriously asking not to go to the march I _organized from scratch_ because you’ve got some sort of _bad feeling_ about it?” Enjolras asks, her own shock slightly morphing into anger.

“Don’t - make it sound like it’s nothing,” Grantaire says between her teeth. “I’m serious -”

“Then let me be serious too,” Enjolras interrupts her, furious. “This march is important. I’ve been planning it for three weeks, I’ve put all my time and energy into it and I’m very proud and very excited about it. I know that you were never here for our cause, but I did believe that you were enthusiastic about this too when I saw you this morning. Your little tricks might work on Marius, but they have absolutely _no place_ here, and they definitely won’t change my mind about anything, certainly not _this._ ”

“You’re not listening -” Grantaire growls, taking a step forward.

“I’ve heard too much already!” Enjolras hisses. “If you have such a bad feeling, then I don’t even know why you bothered to show up in the first place. Go back to your shop and your _visions_ and don’t trouble yourself in coming back for our next meetings!”

“Oh, _fuck you,_ ” Grantaire snarls, pushing her chair violently out of the way. “Fuck you, Enjolras, you know _nothing_! You think I wouldn’t like being exactly the person you think I am? I would _love_ for my fucking visions to be nothing but lies. I would love it if I didn’t have to try to fucking convince you that I’m worth at least a little of your precious time because otherwise, I’m going to _lose it._ D’you think I like that, asshole? Knowing that without you, I have absolutely no chance to _live?_ That soon enough, I’m going to end up into an asylum for the rest of my life because I will have been entirely _consumed_ by what you think are nice little inventions that I make up to - what, _annoy you?_ ”

Grantaire’s eyes are shining; Enjolras feels another shiver of electricity go down her spine. It occurs to her, vaguely, that she’s getting used to the feeling. Externally, she stands very still, looking impassibly at Grantaire, her lips pursed with cold determination. She wasn’t lying when she said that she wouldn’t change her mind.

Grantaire seems to get the message quickly. She shakes her head, and then snorts bitterly.

“Fine,” she says, grabbing her bag with shaky hands before glaring again at Enjolras. “Fine, whatever, _burn_ then. Why should I care? I certainly won’t be there for your funeral, anyway.”

She passes in front of Enjolras without another word, walking quickly to the door.

Enjolras breathes slowly. She realizes dimly that she’s alone in the room - Marius must have left while they were arguing.

_Well then_ , she thinks, trying to calm her racing heart. _There is still a march to lead. Let’s move on._

 

*

 

Enjolras doesn’t allow herself to doubt; this isn’t in her nature, and it turns out, of course, that she’s right not to: the march is a success.

They walk through Paris for almost three hours in mass, chanting, shouting, singing, and the world seems to answer their clamour by making most people stop and watch them with smiles and cheers. Enjolras sees so many girls glancing at each other before laughing and beginning to walk with their group, and it makes her soul soar with happiness and conviction. Nobody tries to start trouble. The police follows them, somber and quiet, but for once they look more peaceful than threatening. Towards the end, some of them even take off their helmets and join their voices to the others.

By the time they arrive at the Champs-Elysées, it seems to Enjolras that the crowd has doubled. She climbs on the platform that has been quickly put together by some talented members of _Osez Féminisme_ with a delighted grin for Adeline, but also Chloé and Marie, the two other girls who made all of this possible.

Each of them says a few words and then Adeline gives the microphone to Enjolras, whispering:

“Impress them, _ma chère.”_

“I don’t think I need to thank you again for coming,” Enjolras says to all the expectant, joyful faces looking up to the platform. “What we’ve done today might look like nothing. A lot of people are going to ask you, tonight, what good has it done? Well, you have talked; you have protested; you have shaken a status quo that has been there for far too long. You have proven that you are ready to unite, and that you won’t allow yourself to be silenced again. What you have done, all of you, is that you have risen above the fear of a society that would like you to stay complacent. You have been loud, and brave, and you can all be proud! You have taken the first step into another world, to another _future_ where everybody will be equal, where every single gender will be loved and respected, where fear and hatred will no longer have their place among us. My friends, what have you done today? You have started to bring back the meaning behind the beautiful words of our nation; _Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!_ So be proud, and keep screaming. Together, we will be heard! _”_

The crowd explodes in cheers, but Enjolras is climbing down, and she only has eyes for her two best friends, who look as thrilled as her. She can clearly see Courfeyrac jumping into Combeferre’s arms, kissing her with obvious enthusiasm while Combeferre half-carries her and kisses her back passionately, and finally, for the first time since the two people she loves the most in the world have started _dating_ each other, Enjolras feels nothing but happiness. When the two of them finally move slightly away from each other and look at her, she grins.

Courfeyrac crosses the short distance between them in an instant and hugs her fiercely.

“I’m sorry!” she says against Enjolras’ chest. “I’m sorry I said so many awful things, I love you.”

“I’m sorry I avoided you instead of simply talking to you,” Enjolras answers. “I love you too.”

Courfeyrac beams at her, raises her hands and grabs Enjolras’ hair to make her bend her head before kissing her soundly on the lips. Enjolras smiles, accepting the affectionate gesture for the sign of peace it is, and then Courfeyrac waves at Combeferre to join them, and they embrace each other and hold on tightly, like they always do after successful actions.

It takes them hours to get home. Even after Enjolras’ speech and Marie’s announcement that the march is officially done, people still linger for a rather long time, and after that, most of ABC returns to the Musain and celebrates appropriately.

It’s not only before the sun starts to slowly disappear that Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras finally stumble into their apartment, all three of them still buzzing with excitement.

“I’m going to make us hot chocolate,” Combeferre says.

“I’m going to sit on this couch and never move again,” Courfeyrac says in answer, but she barely has time to collapse in it that her phone begins to ring loudly, the sound clearly coming from her bag that she carelessly let in the entry hall.

Courfeyrac looks at it, betrayed.

“You could just let it ring,” Enjolras suggests, amused.

“That’s Bossuet’s special ringtone,” Courfeyrac sighs. “I’ve been wondering why he hasn’t come to the party, I should get that.”

Although she pretended to be tired, she’s quick to get on her feet. Enjolras watches her, pensive. The mention of Bossuet makes her think again at Grantaire. She isn’t angry anymore - in fact, she feels almost childishly smug. She has half-in-mind to go see her, right now, look into those clear eyes and hold her shaking hands and says: _See? Can you_ really _see now?_

“Bossuet!” Courfeyrac exclaims happily. “Almost didn’t get to you, why are you - what? Hey, hey calm down, what’s going on? Oh god, yeah, no she’s here, breathe, Bossuet, come on, I’m just - just a second, alright? Enjolras!”

Enjolras frowns as Courfeyrac comes back to her, almost running, her face pale and devoid of any of the cheerfulness she wore a moment before.

“What -” Enjolras begins but Courfeyrac just gives her the phone, mouthing “ _for you”_

She brings the phone to her ear.

The first thing she hears is a scream. A long, unending scream in the background and it sends a terribly familiar jolt of electricity in her back.

“Hello? Bossuet? What’s -”

“Enjolras,” Bossuet’s voice cuts ut. “Enjolras, please, fuck, you’ve got to come. Please come. Grantaire she’s - please, I know you don’t believe in all that, but we’ve tried everything, and she’s not _calming down -”_

“Is that _Grantaire?_ ” Enjolras asks, suddenly feeling very cold. “What is wrong with -”

“You know what’s wrong!” Bossuet snaps and then immediately after “Sorry, I’m sorry, _please,_ you need to come to our place, this is - I don’t think she’ll be able to come back without you this time I just -”

“ _I’ve got it,”_ Enjolras hears Joly yell above the scream in the background. _“Chetta, you need to help me hold her - you too, Bossuet, otherwise I won’t be able to sedate her properly -”_

“Sedate her?” Enjolras repeats, and the scream falter for a moment, and she can vaguely makes out some words _burning, too late, help, burning_ and then abrupt silent before the line goes dead.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac says, very quietly.

“You know where they live?” Enjolras asks - she barely realizes that her teeth are chattering and that her whole body is shaking. Grantaire’s angry words from this morning are swivelling in her mind, mixed with the high-pitched scream she just heard, and she feels breathless.

“I do,” Courfeyrac says. “We’re going, right?”

Enjolras doesn’t even have to consider it.

“Yes,” she says, already moving to the door. “Yes, she needs me.”

_I can see,_ she thinks, numb. _I can see now, wait for me._

 

**Part III - Through my mind**

 

The world is blissfully silent.

Well, that’s not exactly true. Even though she’s still half-asleep, Grantaire can hear the noises of the street below, and the sound of the radio in the next room. She thinks Bossuet might be singing along with whatever song is playing, but Musichetta is clearly laughing, and it’s loud and more pleasant to listen to. There is also, so very close to her, someone breathing quietly and turning the pages of a book regularly. Joly, by deduction.

It’s not the world which is silent, really, it’s Grantaire’s mind. She feels more rested than she has in weeks, perhaps years, and she’s happy to stay like this as long as she can, her nose buried in her pillow, the sun warming the bed, revelling in the fact that she _can_ pay attention to all those little details that she usually misses because her thoughts are pushing her in another direction. She allows herself to wake up slowly, and it’s only when she moves her head on the other side and that she feels a jolt of pain that she remembers suddenly quite clearly what happened before she lost consciousness.

Fear twists her stomach, as always, but she ignores it as best as she can, even though she can hear that faithful, anxious little voice in the back on her mind whispering: _How long was it this time? How long until it doesn’t stop? How much time is left now?_ Grantaire is used to such thoughts. Time has always been her worst enemy, and she knows it’s too late now. She’s barely living already; she forgets to eat, she forgets to drink until her hands are shaking and she realizes she needs alcohol. She can’t sleep without having nightmares.

She has also stopped seeing her own future, which is more telling than anything else, really.

It makes her wonder how the hell can she feel so good right now. Her body does hurt, especially her left cheek, but she doesn’t feel exhausted to the bone like she usually does. She doesn’t feel confused, or itchy, or morose. Her mind is _clear,_ and she thinks that she could easily get up and join her friends without being scared of falling because of dizziness or a sudden, unpleasant vision. It’s… odd.

“What the hell did you do to me this time, Jolllly?” she finally asks into her pillow.

“He gave you a strong sedative,” a very feminine voice answers. “Also, I’m not Joly.”

Grantaire knows that voice, of course. She spent the last few weeks listening to it, after all, learning all its different intonations - she’s pretty sure she could pass a test on this voice and get top marks. She’s also very much aware, unfortunately, that it’s impossible for the voice to be real right now. She groans at herself, incapable of being satisfied that at least she recognized that it wasn’t reality, and then opens her eyes.

Enjolras is staring down at her, as beautiful as ever, and Grantaire freezes.

Something is wrong, she thinks. Something is terribly familiar, too. Enjolras isn’t smiling, but she’s looking at Grantaire carefully… Gently. Her blond hair is tied up in a bun, her shirt is ruffled, her finger is still hovering over the page of the book she’s apparently been reading. The sun is just behind her, already high in the sky, and it gives her a sort of pale, golden aura that makes Grantaire itches for paint.

It’s a vision. It has to be a vision. She’s seen Enjolras like this before, she’s sure. She knows, with almost complete certainty, that this is what Enjolras in the week-ends looks like, relaxed and not caring much about how she’s dressed, calm and quiet and peaceful.

It feels so real and Grantaire is unbalanced, even though she shouldn’t; it’s been so long since she’s lost the ability to differentiate when she’s Seeing and when she’s living, it really shouldn’t surprise her that right now she just _can’t know._

She hasn’t seen her Future for the last three months or so. If she remembers correctly what happened the last time Enjolras and her spoke, she has absolutely no reason to start seeing it again now. But that would mean that _Enjolras is here,_ in her _bed,_ and it’s… it’s impossible.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras finally asks. “Are you okay?”

There’s a very simple way to be sure, Grantaire thinks. She had so many visions of Enjolras in the past - she knows exactly how to pull away from them. Enjolras is her Anchor, and when a Seer touches their Anchor, their minds quieten. It’s a law with no exception.

“I’m fine,” she says, because maybe this is a vision, maybe this is - this is _her_ Enjolras, and she doesn’t want her to be worried.

She slowly raises her hand, hesitates for a second when she sees Enjolras frown curiously, and then, holding her breath, lets her fingers brush against the pale skin of Enjolras’ arm. It’s soft, and warm, and definitely _real -_ Enjolras doesn’t dissipate at all. In fact, she actually closes her book, setting it on her lap, and then covers Grantaire’s hand with her own.

Grantaire’s entire body hums with happiness for a very short moment, and then she realizes what this means, and she freaks out.

“Oh my god,” she says, and takes back her hand quickly, moves away from Enjolras as fast as she can and almost falls out of bed in the process. “Oh my god, you’re _here,_ what the hell are you actually doing here?”

“Bossuet called me last night,” Enjolras says, and although she’s still frowning, she sounds impossibly calm, and it makes Grantaire feel even more on the edge. “Joly and him didn’t think they’d be able to calm you down without me.”

“And you came?” Grantaire says incredulously, choosing not to think about how desperate her friends must have been to do something she had made them promise _not_ to do.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “I felt -” she stops then, and for the first time Grantaire can see a hint of incertitude in her eyes before she licks her lips and shrugs: “You needed me. So, yes, I came.”

“Well, that’s a rather big change of heart to have in only a few hours,” Grantaire says and oh - she’s angry. She feels angry. She remembers all too well the flat look Enjolras gave her yesterday when she tried to explain what was going to happen without her help. “Are you going to tell me you believe in Seers now, and wants me to tell you your Future?”

“No,” Enjolras says, her frown deepening. “I’m not going to completely disregard everything I held true for so long in only a night, nothing happens that easily. I’m still sceptical about your… powers. But it seems pointless to ignore facts. And even if what had happened yesterday night hadn’t already been quite convincing, the talk I had with Joly this morning was certainly enlightening enough.”

“What - morning?” Grantaire repeats, forgetting her anger a moment to look behind Enjolras and at the window. “What time is it?”

“Almost four,” Enjolras answers, glancing at her watch. “You slept a long time. Joly seemed to think it was a good thing.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire says, anxiety rising up her throat. “Fuck, the shop, I was supposed to -”

“Bossuet called your clients to cancel all your appointments for the day,” Enjolras tells her and she’s trying to sound _reassuring,_ which is too weird for Grantaire to deal with.

“He shouldn’t have!” she snaps, rising from the bed. “He should have fucking woke me up, for god’s sake, he’s in charge of our accounts, he _knows_ we can’t do that! Especially not twice in the same week!”

“You needed the sleep,” Enjolras says, getting out of the bed too.

“I need _money,”_ Grantaire retorts and then points a furious finger at Enjolras: “and stop _doing_ that!”

“What am I doing?” Enjolras asks and, ah, Grantaire thinks with dark satisfaction, there’s the exasperated tone she’s learnt to expect from her.

“Pretending to care!” she says and turns away from Enjolras to open her wardrobe a bit more forcefully than necessary. “You don’t get to act as if you have _any_ idea of what I need, or want, or should have. You don’t even _know_ me -” she adds, her voice trails off into silence as her eyes catch sight of the only red shirt she owns. She grabs it without thinking. “I don’t even understand why the hell you’re still here, I mean, I get it, you did your good deed of the day, but you certainly didn’t have to _stay_ and watch me while I slept, who even does that?”

“I didn’t -” Enjolras begins to protest, her voice slightly higher than before but when Grantaire looks at her again she firmly presses her lips together and crosses her arms on her chest. “I wasn’t sure how this… thing works,” she tries again after a short moment. “None of your friends did, either, so it seemed more prudent to stay until you woke up.”

“Well, I’m awake now,” Grantaire mutters.

Her pants are on the rocking chair near the window. She’s going to have to pass in front of Enjolras to go to them, and she doesn’t want to. There are skirts in the wardrobe - she could put one of those on, but it wouldn’t erase the fact that _Enjolras is in the room_ and she doesn’t seem to get the message that Grantaire wants to change. She could take off her top in front of her, that would probably make her leave - or that would lead to something else, perhaps; Enjolras has always liked her breasts. Well, she technically hasn’t seen them yet but -

“Can’t you stop being purposefully antagonistic for a moment?” Enjolras asks, not trying to hide the annoyance in her voice anymore.

Grantaire sighs, and stops pretending she cares about her clothes, looking straight at Enjolras instead.

“No,” she says honestly. “No, I can’t, because I’m really mad at you.”

“I probably deserve it,” Enjolras says, and fuck, she actually looks like she’s calming down again. “I was too late to acknowledge your feelings, and I get that I might be overstepping some of your boundaries right now. I still want to help you. I _do_ care.”

“You don’t,” Grantaire retorts, her fingers curling into a fist. “You’ve been guilt-tripped by my friends, and now that you’ve seen how bad it is, you’re _pitying_ me.”

“I’m _worried,_ ” Enjolras says. “This has nothing to do with -”

“Worried?” Grantaire repeats and then laughs unhappily. “Why the hell for? You don’t care for me; you don’t even like me!”

“I -”

“You don’t even _believe_ me, or believe in what I can do!”

“Oh for the love of -” Enjolras snaps. “Fine! Fine, you don’t want me to say that I’m worried for you? Then I won’t tell you. Can you accept that I’m worried about how Joly and Bossuet would feel if you lost your mind? That I’m worried about _any_ of our friends would react to the news?”

Grantaire just stares at her, her heart beating loudly in her chest. Enjolras sighs, clearly frustrated.

“If you want a selfish reason too,” she adds, “then I’m also worried about my future. Do you know what you kept saying yesterday? That I was going to burn. And, if what you see is real - which is what everybody seems to think - then it’s something that _apparently_ didn’t happen before. I can only conclude that I have to make sure you don’t go mad so you can prevent me from that. There, are you satisfied? Are you going to let me help you now?”

Grantaire can’t take her eyes of her. There is something fierce in Enjolras, something that she’s always seen, and now it’s pouring out of her every word and it’s for _Grantaire._ She wants to believe, she realizes. Enjolras wants to believe in this, and Grantaire wants her to believe too. If Enjolras has truly changed her mind, it might mean that the Future that Grantaire used to take such a comfort in, _their_ future, together, might still -

“You don’t understand,” she says, weakly. “This isn’t - this isn’t just you popping up like a white knight when I’m feeling bad thing. This is _permanent._ I will always need you, in some degree. Especially for the first few months, while I learn how to control my visions again. We’ll have to see each other, often, and -”

“I can do that,” Enjolras says, more gently than before.

“You say that now,” Grantaire sighs, “but give it a year, or five and -”

“Why not just try?” Enjolras asks. “Let’s think of the present first.”

Grantaire laughs again, and then hides her face into her hands, incapable of believing that this is _actually_ happening.

“I don’t usually think much about the present,” she admits.

“Well, now you can start,” Enjolras says, and it sounds so simple when she says it like that. “You said I didn’t know you. Well, I’d like to. Let’s organize this, together. I’m sure we can actually agree on some things.”

“Yes,” Grantaire says, and can’t help but smile back when Enjolras grins at her, thinking of the days to come and all the happiness she knows they could bring. “We should -”

A ringtone interrupts her. They both startle, and then Enjolras takes her phone out of her pocket, looking apologetically at Grantaire, and takes the call. Grantaire doesn’t listen to what she says, her thoughts wandering again. What is she doing? This was never how she’d imagined things would go, before. Enjolras is talking about this like this is a business partnership - Grantaire knows that this is supposed to be… more. At least, it _was_ supposed to be. But the future is prone to changes, and Grantaire fucked up somewhere, that much is clear enough.

_You should be glad Enjolras is offering you your sanity if nothing else,_ she tells herself, and smiles again when Enjolras hangs up and turns towards her again.

“I need to go, I’m sorry,” she says, looking torn.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire says, because she’s not going to raise her hopes again. “Is there a meeting tonight?”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers, “but don’t feel like you have to come if you’re still tired.”

“I’m not,” Grantaire says and then adds as earnestly as she can. “I’m actually feeling pretty good, which is probably because of you, so, thanks for that.”

“That’s great,” Enjolras says.

They look at each other for a moment, and it feels terribly awkward. Enjolras looks like she wants to say something but has no idea what, and Grantaire just wishes she was gone already so she can mope properly. It’s her who cracks first.

“I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and smiles, clearly trying to hide her relief - Grantaire would be hurt, but how can she when she feels exactly the same? “We’ll be able to discuss about a possible plan afterwards, this is good. I’m glad you’re okay.”

Grantaire nods, and Enjolras finally, _finally_ leaves the room. Grantaire waits behind the door until she’s heard Enjolras say goodbye to Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta, and then puts her forehead against the wall, breathing as deeply as she can to calm her racing heart, before getting out of the room herself.

She’s barely made three steps that she can feel three pairs of eyes on her, and she raises her head, looking unimpressively at her best friends.

“Don’t ask me how it went, I know you guys spied on us the whole time,” she says.

“Well yes,” Musichetta says, unashamed. “We needed to make sure you weren’t going to push her away.”

“Which you almost _did,_ ” Joly points out. “Bossuet was ready to come in at any moment.”

“I was going to make a grand entry, but then you did good and decided to communicate,” Bossuet grins.

Grantaire doesn’t deserve them, she thinks. They’re too good for her, the three of them.

“Are you okay?” Musichetta asks more seriously when she doesn’t answer their invitation to banter.

“I - don’t know,” Grantaire answers honestly, a lump in her throat.

“Well, that’s better than most days at least, so I’ll take it,” Musichetta smiles, and then she opens her arms. “Come here, honey.”

Grantaire falls gratefully against her, nestling her head in her neck. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Joly and Bossuet to join the hug, and they stand like that in the middle of their corridor for a long moment, while Grantaire tries very hard not to cry.

“It’s gonna be okay now,” Bossuet whispers. “You’re gonna be good, R.”

_Don’t get your hopes too high,_ Grantaire thinks again, but doesn’t say it out loud and squeezes her friend’s hand instead.

 

*

 

It’s hot.

Grantaire holds on to the sensation, forces herself not to forget how the sun is hitting her through the window. Pearls of sweat are sliding along the back of her neck, even though she tied up her hair a while ago - she touches them, briefly, just to make sure but yes, she’s got a ponytail - it’s a loose one, and it probably does nothing to hide the fact that Grantaire forgot to wash them yesterday. Then again, Enjolras is probably not going to care about the hair; she might take offense at Grantaire’s jeans, which are stained by the coffee cup she spilled this morning, or the old grey t-shirt that’s slightly too big, even for her, and shows way too much cleavage.

She might be angry that Grantaire hasn’t thought about her outfit at all until twenty minutes ago, when Bossuet has looked through the door after their last client of the day (it was only three pm - what a depressing thought) and said, casually, affectionately: “ _don’t you have a coffee date with Enjolras to go to?”_

She does. She’s got a coffee date with Enjolras, today, and she _forgot._

Enjolras might not care, she thinks. Enjolras might not find it weird, that Grantaire didn’t put any care in her appearance - this is not, after all, a _real_ date. This is Enjolras doing her _duty._ She was the one, last Friday, who proposed Grantaire to meet regularly each week _“so they could know each other better”._ She’d even said dinner, first, but Grantaire, who was still remembering quite clearly what had happened in the afternoon, had suggested that they only meet for coffee, _“just in case it gets really awkward”._

It’s scary, realizing that she can forget even this. She thought anything she might do with Enjolras would be the kind of things that linger in your mind forever, and yet if it hadn’t been for Bossuet, Grantaire would have gone back home and probably simply tried to sleep a little, hoping foolishly that her perpetual exhaustion might recede for a moment. She would have thought of Enjolras, anyway, because it’s hard not to think about her, especially those days, and - there are little flames in the corner of her eyes.

Grantaire blinks furiously, and tightens her grip on her glass. She doesn’t want to see this now. She needs to stay present, she _can_ stay present until Enjolras arrive. She ignores the way the café seems to fade away slowly.

It’s hot. There are pearls of sweat behind her neck, and the sun is lazily warming the table she’s sitting at. There is wind - no. She’s inside, so no wind, and she can feel her chair against her back, the way it’s slightly uncomfortable and she’s - she’s -

“Are you alright, _Mademoiselle?_ ” Someone says worriedly, and then they touch Grantaire’s arm.

This is Amélie, she’s a waitress here but she hates it, she’s not that good at it, her boss keeps her because she’s not bad at handling clients and he also knows she needs the money. She’s going to argue with her boyfriend tonight, he’s beautiful when he’s angry and slamming the door behind him and Amélie’s crying - they’re going to reconcile on Friday, and leave on a short trip away from Paris, and Saturday night in Normandy the night will be beautiful and warm, and Grantaire can actually feel the grass brushing against her ankles as she watches Amélie and Simon, that’s her boyfriend’s name, laughing and cuddling and then, oh, the sky suddenly lights up, and there is smoke, Grantaire’s in a street, there are flames, everywhere -

Warm fingers curl around her hand; her hand which is still holding her glass. Grantaire gasps, looks at it, and then raises her eyes to see Enjolras, who’s frowning. It’s sad, Grantaire thinks, that Enjolras always seems to frown when she’s around her. Grantaire has seen Enjolras with discreet, subtle smiles before, and it made her feel so warm.

“Sorry,” she says, and glances towards Amélie, but she’s left already.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Enjolras says. “Are you okay?”

“Yes yes,” Grantaire takes a deep breath, forces her shoulders to relax into a more casual position. The last thing she wants to do is making Enjolras believe she’s too weak to handle anything. “She just - touched me, and I’ve been Seeing since this morning so, you know, my mind reacted to that.”

Enjolras doesn’t look like she knows anything about what Grantaire is saying, but she does accept her poor explanation and nods calmly. She doesn’t speak up again, frowning instead a bit more, her eyes pensive. Her thumb is still caressing the back of her hand absent-mindedly, and Grantaire gets nervous all over again. It’s strange, the way her heart is quickening in her chest, and her throat seems suddenly so dry. Grantaire isn’t usually that aware of her own body, but now all of her senses are enhanced, and she feels terribly _alive_ and doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

“So,” she says after a minute, trying not to stare at their intertwined hands. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Enjolras answers, sounding a bit surprised, although Grantaire can’t see why. “I’ve been busy with the aftermaths of the rally, there have been so much positive feedback, we think it’s a great idea to take advantage of that and maybe try to go bigger next time.”

“That’s… great,” Grantaire says. She tries to go for enthusiasm, but clearly she’s not convincing enough, because Enjolras presses her lips together and stares at her unimpressively. “What?” Grantaire asks defensively. “You know what I think about this, don’t you?”

“But you were wrong, last time,” Enjolras points out.

“Oh, so this is just a subtle way to tell me _I told you so_?”

Her tone is sarcastic and a little bit aggressive despite herself. She watches as Enjolras visibly tries to stay calm, and she feels suddenly bad. She doesn’t want Enjolras to decide that she actually hates her for good, but being annoying and contrary has been her best way to protect herself from hurt for so long, it’s hard to get rid of it like that, even though she wishes she could now.

“You asked me about how I was doing,” Enjolras finally says, carefully neutral. “I just answered.”

“I asked about _you,_ ” Grantaire retorts. “Not about your pretty causes.”

“Well, they’re one and the same for me,” Enjolras says, some frustration leaking through her voice.

“What a pleasant conversation this is going to be, then,” Grantaire remarks, biting.

She hates herself when Enjolras’ face closes off and she removes her hand from Grantaire’s. She had almost gotten used to the feeling of her soft skin against her rugged fingers, and now it’s gone, simply because Grantaire has no control over her mouth. Why is she so keen on ruining this? Why can’t she just _shut up and listen to Enjolras_ and be _good._ There has to be way she can make this better, it used to be better, in her visions - she used to See Enjolras _happy,_ so pleased to be with her - and the reality, at this point, feels like a terribly bad joke.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out before Enjolras can say anything or, worse, decide that Grantaire is definitely isn’t worth any of her time and leave. “I’m sorry, I’m just - nervous.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks, sounding both stiff and curious.

“Because clearly we don’t _click,_ ” Grantaire shrugs uneasily. “Look at all that happened before.”

“Let me get this straight - you’re nervous because we argued before, so you’ve decided that the best plan was _to try to stir up an argument?_ ” Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow.

“Well,” Grantaire says dryly with the shadow of a smile, “you must have realized by now that screwing things up before anything else can is one of my most charming personality traits, right?”

Amazingly, Enjolras’ lips turn up in answer, and Grantaire feels absurdly proud.

“I _can_ do better,” she promises and hopes that she doesn’t sound too eager.

“I think we’ve been going about this the wrong way,” Enjolras says, shaking her head, and then she raises her hand again expectantly. “Hello, I’m Enjolras.”

Grantaire snorts, even as she takes Enjolras’ hand into her own again: “This is terribly cliché. Hi, I’m Grantaire.”

Enjolras’ handshake is unsurprisingly firm; Grantaire is reluctant to let go, and they stay like this a beat too long until Enjolras blinks and breaks the contact. Grantaire doesn’t sigh, even though she wants to. Every time she touches Enjolras, something warm rises in her body, even as the constant pull at the back of her mind diminishes. It feels a little like slipping into a hot bath and putting your ears in the water. Grantaire thinks she could become addicted to this.

It’s probably not the kind of things she can say to Enjolras without scaring her off though, so instead she raises her glass to her mouth, takes a sip of courage, and then smiles properly, trying to convince herself that Enjolras probably doesn’t realize that she didn’t brush her teeth after lunch.

“So, what safe topic should we pick for our new very first meeting?” she asks.

Enjolras seems to think this through for a moment and then she says, dead-panned: “What’s your favourite colour?”

Grantaire gives a startled laugh. “Seriously?”

“It seems like it’s safe enough,” Enjolras points out, the hint of a smile curling her lips again.

“True,” Grantaire admits. “Gold. My favourite colour is gold, my best dreams have always had gold in them. What about you?”

“Red,” Enjolras answers immediately.

“That’s such a boring answer,” Grantaire teases and then, before Enjolras can protest she asks: “What’s your favourite meal?”

“ _Blanquette de veau,_ ” Enjolras says. “I used to eat that every Sunday when I went to my grandparents’ house. Yours?”

“Pizza,” Grantaire says unashamedly.

“Now who’s boring?” Enjolras retorts dryly, and Grantaire laughs again.

They keep asking each other inane questions for the next hour, and everything goes... surprisingly well. Grantaire learns that Enjolras doesn’t have a favourite season (“I don’t really notice the way the weather change,” she says. “Me neither,” says Grantaire, “but I still like autumn best.”), that she broke her arm twice when she was little because she kept trying to climb the wall behind her school, that she hates waking up early but still does because days aren’t long enough for all that she wants to do, that the last time she wore a dress she was eight (“Shame,” Grantaire says casually, and then immediately asks another question), that she met Combeferre in _Maternelle,_ Courfeyrac in high-school, Feuilly on a political forum, and Bahorel and Jehan in a jail cell, and that she absolutely refuses to say her first name (“Come on, it can’t be _that_ awful,” Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras _scowls;_ “I didn’t hear you say yours, either.”, “My name’s Charlotte,” Grantaire says, “There, I shared! Tell me yours, I won’t mock you” “No,” Enjolras says firmly)

Grantaire also learns again all that she had already gathered from her visions. Enjolras pulls on her hair a little when she’s talking about something that she doesn’t like (“It’s not that I’m afraid of Jehan’s pet tarantula but, well - spiders were never meant to be _pets._ ”), wrinkles her nose when she finds something distasteful (“I’m not fond of speculoos, do you want mine?”), laughs like she’s surprised to do it, smiles when she evokes her friends, licks her lips after drinking coffee, and often takes her time to think before she says anything she deems important.

Grantaire regrets ever suggesting “only coffee” when Enjolras finally glances at her watch and frowns again before saying that she needs to go. She wants time to stretch indefinitely, so they can keep talking like this, so _easily._ She wants to discover all that she doesn’t know about her Anchor, wants to see if what she always imagined because of the visions is actually true, wants to learn everything that makes Enjolras delightfully human and _real,_ not just a beautiful and comforting presence in her mind, the hope of Grantaire’s future.

But she stays silent and gets up at the same time as Enjolras to say goodbye.

“Are you more convinced that we can do this, now?” Enjolras asks.

“A little bit,” Grantaire answers and then adds, bravely: “I guess we’ll just have to see each other some more, so it can really stick in my mind.”

Enjolras rolls her eyes.

“We will,” she says. “I’ll see you Friday? Don’t hesitate to call before if you need too.”

“Sure,” Grantaire says. “Thanks, Enjolras.”

Enjolras smiles and then bends over, her hand brushing against Grantaire’s arm as she kisses both of her cheeks. Grantaire hopes that her face isn’t burning too much when Enjolras looks at her again.

“This was nice,” she says, quietly, intensely, as if she truly wants to persuade Grantaire that she had a good time and wasn’t just being polite. “ _Au revoir_ , Grantaire.”

“ _Au revoir,_ ” Grantaire breathes out, and she watches Enjolras go with a foolish grin on her lips. Her heart is still beating quickly, and she wants to laughfor no reason.

She wonders if this is what optimism feels like.

 

*

 

As soon as she’s out of the bank, Grantaire calls Bossuet.

“So?” he asks immediately.

“Well, he didn’t give me anything.” Grantaire admits, barely avoiding a stroller and absent-mindedly smiling at the baby inside it, Grégory, who’s going to have paint all over him one day in two or three years. In her ear, Bossuet sighs. “Trust me, if you’d been there, it would have gone worse,” she adds.

“You just told me he didn’t give you anything,” Bossuet says, but he sounds tired rather than dubious.

“Yes,” Grantaire says, trying to be comforting. “He didn’t give any ultimatum, either, which means we still got at least a month or two to start doing better so we don’t have to close the shop. That’s good.”

“Have you seen anything?”

“Well, no,” Grantaire says, wrinkling her nose to the air. The sky has a weird colour, but she doesn’t pay attention, concentrating on her conversation. “But I’ve been seeing Enjolras regularly for two weeks now, and there has been no crisis. I’ve been able to control my mouth yesterday and didn’t tell the client all that I’d been Seeing! She left _happy,_ which is great, isn’t it?”

“I am not used to you being optimistic, it does weird things to my poor heart,” Bossuet says teasingly. “I guess we’ll talk more about this tonight. You’re on your way home?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, and then actually looks around her, and frowns when she realizes that she’s been walking in the complete opposite direction. “Or not,” she amends. She’s already moving again, and everything that isn’t in her direct field of vision gets blurry. “I think I might need to do a… thing,” she says into the phone.

“What sort of thing?” Bossuet asks. Grantaire doesn’t answer immediately. The sky is so dark, but the sun is still shining on the windows of the buildings she sees. She hears laughter, but it can’t be Bossuet, it’s a very feminine laugh. She turns left. “R?” Bossuet says loudly, making her startle. She’d almost forgotten she was holding the phone.

“What?” she asks - one of the building seems to shine brighter than the others. The laughter gets louder, and this time she feels the ghost of a kiss on her cheek.

“Where are you?” Bossuet asks. “What’s the thing you need to do?”

“I dunno,” Grantaire answers, and smiles a little when she hears wedding bells. For a moment, she’s in front of a Church, and she can sees the twirling of a very white dress. She blinks. The street is getting brighter. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing, though. Don’t worry.”

“Tell me where you are, at least, just in case,” Bossuet insists, and Grantaire knows he _is_ worried, because his voice is suddenly very gentle and soothing.

“Don’t worry,” she repeats. “I don’t think I’m far from that great chocolatery we went to last time, I think I’ve definitely past that, yeah.”

“R, we’ve never been to any chocolatery together,” Bossuet says.

“Oh,” Grantaire says, and she almost has to close her eyes with how bright the building a few meters away is shining. The Church is back for moment. Grantaire feels like she has flowers in her hair. “I’ll call you back, yeah?” she tells her friend distractedly.

“R -” Bossuet starts, but Grantaire hangs off, and walks to the building, curious. It’s been a while since she’s had such a strong and intense need to follow her intuition - the last time she felt like this, it was when Bossuet told her about Courfeyrac, she thinks. It means that whoever is in the building, it’s someone important for her.

It’s only when she enters that she realizes that this is, in fact, a bakery. Perhaps a tea room, too - there are five little green tables on the right, and a single bookcase against the wall, full of old books. It’s quite charming, Grantaire decides, and it also feels very familiar, the way every place she sees in her visions is familiar even as she steps into them for the first time in real life. She smiles.

“Can I help you, Mademoiselle?” asks a young, cheerful voice on her right.

Grantaire turns her head, sees a sweet smile, and then, she’s in front of the Church again. It’s really sunny, and there aren’t a lot of people in front of it. An elderly man is moving enthusiastically in the back, talking to a priest. Not far from them stands Marius; he’s in a dark suit, with a pale pink tie, and he’s looking at the priest with a worried frown. Oh, Grantaire thinks, and then there’s a woman in front of her, a beautiful woman, with light brown hair and huge blue eyes, who’s beaming at her, carrying the skirts of her wedding dress in one hand.

“R!” she says excitedly. “You’ve got it!”

“Yes,” Grantaire smiles, because she instinctively knows the woman is talking about the camera in her hands. “Twirl for me, beautiful.”

The woman laughs - the same charming laughter Grantaire heard before, and twirls while Grantaire takes her picture. Then she moves closer to Grantaire to look at it, and laughs again, before kissing her cheek.

“Mademoiselle?” she says, sounding suddenly worried. “Mademoiselle, are you okay?”

Grantaire frowns; the Church is fading away. She can see little tables. Someone is holding her arm. She blinks several times and had to bite her lips really hard before she’s back into the bakery for good. The same woman she’s just seen in her wedding dress is looking at her as if she’s afraid Grantaire is going to fall in a second.

She’s not any woman, of course.

“Cosette,” she says, smiling at her despite herself.

Cosette smiles back as if it’s an automatic answer, but she looks suddenly a bit wary, probably with reason - Grantaire did just have a vision in the middle of her bakery and then calls out her name even though they’ve never met before.

“This is me,” Cosette says carefully. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire assures her immediately. She tries to take a step away from her to prove it, and promptly stumbles on a twig - why is there a twig? she thinks, and blinks, only to realize that there’s nothing there except the shiny floor of the bakery.

“Come on,” Cosette says. “Why don’t you sit for a moment?”

“It’s probably for the best,” Grantaire admits, still frowning at the impeccable ground, and follows obediently Cosette to one of the little tables. “I’m not _completely_ fine,” she says once she’s on the chair, looking at Cosette again, “but I’m really glad to meet you. I’m a friend of Marius.”

“Who’s Marius?” Cosette asks gently.

She apparently decided that Grantaire wasn’t dangerous for her, which is good, but now she’s staring at her like she’s not sure she’s completely sane, and that hurts a little. Grantaire is holding on to her sanity as much as she can. Outside of Cosette’s bakery, the sun has disappeared again. People are looking at the sky - they seem frozen, almost like they _’_ re in a painting. It’s a bit disturbing, and Grantaire concentrates on Cosette.

“Marius,” she says, “is the boy you’ve met two weeks ago, just before that big march in Paris.”

Cosette’s eyes widen, her cheeks pinkening instantly.

“Excuse-me?” she squeals, and then blushes some more, and sits on the chair in front of Grantaire. “How - How do you even know about that?”

“I’m Marius’ friend,” Grantaire repeats, and then, because Cosette doesn’t look really convinced by that, she adds: “Also, I’m a Seer, which helps.”

There are three different ways people usually react when Grantaire tells them she’s a Seer. Some, like Enjolras, are scornful and refuse to believe it. Others think it’s a joke, but are amused enough to play along - Joly did that, the first time they met. The last ones are always so very enthusiastic about it (until they ask Grantaire to look into their Future, and they don’t like what she tells them). Generally speaking, all those reactions are summed up with one little word, and Cosette is no exception to the rule.

“Really?” she exclaims, a curious and excited smile chasing the last of her wariness away.

It makes her as beautiful as she will be for her wedding day, and Grantaire grins.

“Really,” she says. “Marius can’t stop talking about you, he’s completely smitten, and I’ve got an inkling that it’s not that different for you.”

“I - Does he, really?” Cosette asks, her eyes shining. “He was - he was lovely. I felt like an idiot for not even asking for his name, or his number - that’s what I should have done, isn’t it?” she bites her lips, and then, she beams at Grantaire. “Fortunately, R came by! Do you remember? We probably would have never met again without you!”

“What?” Grantaire says, taken aback.

Cosette giggles and takes her by the arm. They’re on the large couch of the Pontmercys household, a huge, uncomfortable thing that they only keep to please Marius’ grandfather. It’s very warm, and Grantaire is a little bit drunk - like Cosette, who’s snuggling closer to her.

“You’ve got to say thank you to auntie R, darling,” she says to the little girl who’s avidly looking at them from her spot on the carpet, dressed with a big, sparkly purple dress.

“Auntie R,” she says, grabbing Grantaire’s ankle. “Are you having a vision, Auntie R?”

Grantaire lowers herself a little to try to grab her with a grin, but Cosette stops her - except it doesn’t make sense, because Cosette was a her side a second ago, and now she’s standing in front of her, holding her by the shoulders - and where’s her little goddaughter?

“Are you having a vision?” Cosette repeats, sounding both amazed and worried. “You’re falling, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Grantaire, who’s still in the couch, but knows that she probably shouldn’t be there right now, brings her shaking hand to her mouth, and then she bites it hard. The warm living-room of the Pontmercys fades away, leaving only Cosette behind, so very young. She looks a bit scared, too, and Grantaire sighs, holding on to the throbbing pain in her fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she says, smiling at Cosette as reassuringly as she can. “The curse of a Seer, those sort of things happen rather frequently. I should - probably go home.”

“Are you sure you can?” Cosette asks and - yes, that’s probably a fair question.

“I’ll call a friend to pick me up if I don’t feel good enough, don’t worry,” she says, and when she gets up, she pretends she’s not relieved to see she can still stand on her feet, for Cosette’s sake.

It doesn’t mean that the girl stops hovering, until Grantaire is near the door and laughs.

“Don’t _worry,_ ” she repeats. “We’ll see each other soon enough, once you’ve gathered your courage and called Marius.”

Cosette frowns, her cheeks reddening once more.

“How would I do that?” she asks. “I don’t have his number, I told you, I didn’t think -”

“Didn’t I just - give it to you?” Grantaire asks, a bit confused.

She was sent here for this reason, didn’t she? She’s pretty sure she remembers reaching for a bag to take her phone out…

“No?” Cosette answers uncertainly.

“Oh, well,” Grantaire says, her heart beating faster in her chest. She bites the inside of her mouth, trying not to show her sudden anxiety. This isn’t good, she thinks. She’s too confused, and this isn’t good at all. “I forgot! Take a pen and some paper, I’ll tell you now.”

Cosette obeys, although she’s a bit slow and keeps glancing at Grantaire as if she’s afraid she’s going to fall, or starts to speak non-sense - both of which, Grantaire realizes, are things that could actually happen. That _have_ happened before. She gives out Marius’ number, but doesn’t put her phone back on her bag once she’s done, fidgeting with it instead, and wondering if she should call Enjolras.

It would probably be the safest thing to do - Grantaire hasn’t felt like that, so unbalanced and uncontrolled, in a while now. Then again, she feels a bit better right now; maybe she’s not just used to her instincts being so strong anymore, and she just needs some rest. She loathes the idea of bothering Enjolras if she’s just being paranoid.

“You’re far away again,” Cosette says gently, putting one of her hand on Grantaire’s arm.

Grantaire shakes her head, and then impulsively kisses her cheek.

“I’m going now. Don’t wait too long to call him, I’ll see you soon,” she says.

“Wait,” Cosette exclaims, cheeks pink again. “You didn’t even tell me your name.”

“It’ll be a surprise for next time,” Grantaire laughs, and with a last wave, she gets out of the bakery.

The world outside is terribly loud and everything is dark, far darker than it was before she met Cosette. People are walking around her, there are so many of them, and Grantaire feels skittish. She grabs her phone harder, and decides that even if she doesn’t call Enjolras, she can at least send a text to Joly, to tell him she might need him later. He will be home soon, she knows, because his leg has been making him suffer more lately, and one of his colleagues is going to tell him to leave earlier from his shift. If anything, Grantaire’s little drop will probably distract him from his own frustration.

She doesn’t realize she stopped in order to write the text until she feels someone bumping against her. She turns her head to protest, but she’s in a forest, and the only two people here with her certainly don’t care about her; Jérémy is holding up his girlfriend up against a tree, and she’s laughing, as Jérémy’s lips brush against her neck -

Grantaire takes a step back, and hits her head into another tree - the wall? - she’s in the street again, and she breathes deeply, concentrating on the cold bricks against her sweaty back. She can do this. All she has to do is not touching people, and maybe not looking at them either, and she’ll be okay. The ground feels uneven when she starts to walk again, but she bites her lips as hard as she can, tasting a bit of blood in her mouth, and tries to hang on to the sensation as she avoids with well-practiced steps the Parisian crowd.

It works for a moment, but then she hears a scream, and she can’t help but raises her head. She immediately makes eye-contact with a young teenager, and a second later she’s watching as the same girl, now something like twenty years older, screams loudly and runs down the street, holding a flag of France high above her. Three others are following her, laughing loudly and chanting a name; people are staring, and Grantaire feels afraid.

“Move along,” a voice groans near her.

Grantaire blinks; she’s back in the present, she thinks, and the teenager is long gone. She can’t remember exactly where she is; she moves on the side not to bother anybody else, and tries to look for anything that might help her, but instead her eyes fall on two children holding the hands of their mother, each of them eating a cone of ice-cream, and then she’s in a dark room, and she wrinkles her nose, because the smell is awful. Emmeline is sobbing, and Jacob is breaking the wardrobe. On the bed, their mother looks like she’s sleeping. Grantaire wants to cry, too. Her vision is blurry when she looks at the window; Paris is in flames.

She gasps.

Enjolras, she thinks - says - she doesn’t know, but she needs Enjolras. Something is really wrong. She glances down at her bag and stumbles. The ground is uneven, there are holes in the pavement. Everything is so _dark,_ she can’t see a thing, but she can hear the people running around her. There are whispers, too, harsh and scared both, but she can’t make out what they are saying. Her phone, she thinks frantically, she needs her phone -

Someone pushes her again. She’s in a garden, and on a bench, an old man is raising a gun to his head; Grantaire screams; the world is black again, but only for a moment; someone takes her wrist; she’s in café, and one girl is telling to a man all the reasons why she’s going to kill him if he touches her ass again. Behind her, someone else is watching, half-amused, half-impressed. Grantaire blinks; Enjolras is bend over a map, and Combeferre is next to her, looking so worried. They’re whispering. Why is everybody whispering?

No matter. _Enjolras,_ Grantaire thinks, or maybe says, relieved. Enjolras is here. She starts to walk to her, as quickly as she can, needing her touch desperately, but someone is holding her down - and then Enjolras is fading away, and no, no she needs her, she needs her -

“Where are they?” A voice asks her. “Your Anchor, where are they, please you need to tell me, I can’t help you otherwise -”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whines, and then she’s in their room, but everything is wrong, everything is all wrong, the flames are licking the curtains - something sharp abruptly hits her on the face.

She gasps. She’s in the street. People are looking. There’s a girl holding her wrist.

“Stay with me,” she says firmly. “Tell me where your Anchor is.”

Her Anchor. Enjolras. She can’t - she can’t remember. She’s pretty sure Enjolras told her where she lived, but she can’t remember at all. She needs to call her. She needs her phone. But she doesn’t - she already looked for it in her bag, didn’t she? The street is disappearing again. The girl is still holding her wrist, still staring at her:

“My phone,” Grantaire says. “My phone, Enjolras, she’s Enjolras -”

“We’re winning!” Enjolras tells her, her eyes burning with delight and passion. She’s got blood on her face, and a sort of feral grin that makes her even more terrifyingly beautiful than usual. She’s illuminated by the flames that are creeping behind her, and Grantaire watches, horrified, as they start to burn the carpet Enjolras is standing on. Her girlfriend doesn’t seem to notice a thing; Grantaire screams, and blinks, and she’s outside again, walking fast, and Bossuet is holding her by the hand; her ankle is hurting her, she can’t follow, and she’s falling -

“It’s okay,” The girl is saying, pushing her into a car. “I’m bringing you to her, you hear me? Everything’s gonna be okay -”

“What’s wrong with this one, then?” A male voice asks, glancing at Grantaire.

Their eyes meet. Raoul. He’s hiding. He’s hiding in his taxi, curled up awkwardly on the back, praying that nobody will find him, and he’s shaking badly, his arm is bleeding, but he doesn’t dare make a sound, because it’s war outside, it’s war; _blink_ ; Feuilly has a gun between her hand, and she looks like she’s going to be sick, there is blood at her feet, there is blood everywhere; _blink_ ; the world is black, except for the flames, and Musichetta is screaming Joly’s name; _bink;_ Cathy is crying in Grantaire’s arms, she wants her mother, why is her mother not here? _blink;_ The flames are at her feet, Grantaire can’t run, she can’t run, where is Enjolras, is Enjolras safe, she needs to know if she’s safe -

Her elbow hits something, hard. Her fingers are clenched into her hair;

“Make her _stop,_ ” says Raoul.

“I can’t!” says the girl, a tired note in her voice.

_Blink._ There is smoke everywhere, and Grantaire can’t escape the flames, she’s suffocating, but she needs to find, she needs to find - _blink._ Laughter. It’s not a nice one, someone is laughing as the world is crumbling with each step Grantaire takes. _Blink._ Darkness, darkness, she can’t see, she’s burning, she’s burning, where is - she needs - _why does it hurt so much_ -

“Come on, on step after the other, come on,” the girl whispers.

The whispers are hurting her, the flames have surrounded her, it’s too late, she’s lost, she can’t see, she can’t breathe, she can’t -

Silence.

Grantaire gasps, blinks quickly and through her teary eyes can barely see the face of Enjolras, looking down at her with a terribly serious expression.

“Grantaire,” she whispers. “Grantaire, it’s over.”

She’s touching her, Grantaire realizes slowly. Enjolras’ hands are on her arms, holding her upright. Enjolras is _here,_ and the world is quiet, finally. Grantaire lets out a sob of relief, and she throws herself against Enjolras’ chest without thinking. She presses her nose into Enjolras’ neck, shaking, and she clings to her as hard as she can, revelling in the way she can touch Enjolras’ tee-shirt, the way she can feel Enjolras’ breath on her forehead and Enjolras’ hand caressing her hair, soothingly - it’s real, it’s all real -

“Yes, this is real, I’m real,” Enjolras murmurs. “You’re okay, you’re safe, I’m here, shh, don’t cry, it’s over, I promise everything is real, nobody’s burning, shh.”

Grantaire’s heart calms down slowly, but she stays in Enjolras’ arms, exhaustion taking over the fear and agitation. She still feels so completely removed from everything that is around her, except for Enjolras - Enjolras is her Anchor, and she’s holding Grantaire, and Grantaire is _so very tired._

“I think I’m going to faint,” she mumbles.

Before she lets go, she’s pretty sure she hears Enjolras saying: _“I’ll take care of you.”_

 

*

 

Grantaire wakes her with her cheek pressed against someone’s lap. She can feel their fingers moving through her hair slowly, and it feels terribly nice, albeit also quite confusing, as the last thing she remembers is trying to bargain with her banker (she’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be the one caressing her hair so gently - besides, even if he _was,_ his smell is… distinctive). She keeps her eyes closed, and listens to the sounds around her, trying to determine where she is. Whoever the person is, they’re very silent - however, Grantaire _can_ hear voices, further away.

“ - to do?”

“My Grandma,” says someone in answer to whatever has been asked. “She had the Gift. She used to tell me little things about my future, and I was always amazed when they became true. But, well. Her Anchor died before her.”

The hand in Grantaire’s hair stills. Grantaire doesn’t protest, only because the simple idea of Enjolras dying before her is terrifying, and she immediately tries to chase the thought away.

“Oh,” says somebody else - she knows that voice, Grantaire thinks, it’s familiar, somehow. “I’m very sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” the first person says again. “But I remember quite clearly what happened after Cissy - my grandma’s Anchor - died, and it wasn’t… She didn’t last a month without her before completely losing it. My dad refused to visit her at the asylum. Said there was nothing left of his mother. He wasn’t exactly wrong, you know? But I was twelve, and I was so angry at him when I learnt she’d died alone in this place. We had put her there only three weeks before!”

Grantaire exhales softly, her fingers curling around the leg she’s resting on. This could have been her. This could still be her - if anything happens to Enjolras - hell, if Enjolras decides that Grantaire is too much work… She doesn’t realize she’s shaking until the hand in her hair starts to move again soothingly. Grantaire feels herself melt under the gesture. She should stop listening to the conversation and simply concentrate on this; this is far nicer than thinking about her potential madness. The hand run down the back of her neck, and Grantaire hums happily.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras’ voice above her. “Are you actually awake?”

Grantaire opens her eyes, shocked, and turns around to be on her back to find out that Enjolras is staring down at her, half-amused and half-concerned.

“I don’t think so,” she answers without thinking. “Because that would mean that you were just _stroking my hair._ ”

Enjolras’ cheeks actually goes a little pink even as she scowls and takes back her hand to herself. Grantaire mourns the loss, hating her big mouth all over again. She’s got half in mind to ask Enjolras to ignore it and just keep doing whatever she wishes with Grantaire, but Enjolras’ face grows serious too fast, and Grantaire is forcibly reminded that she still has no idea of how she arrived here. Which… isn’t good at all.

“How do you feel?” Enjolras asks.

“Good,” Grantaire says. “Confused, a little, but good. Did I - what happened?”

“What do you remember last?”

Grantaire frowns, thinking hard:

“I was with the banker,” she tells Enjolras. “He wasn’t very moved by my explanations on why I might have troubles paying him back this month. And then -” she stops, the flash of a smile coming back to her: “I… Met Cosette? I think?”

She looks back at Enjolras to have some kind of confirmation, but of course, Enjolras has no idea who Cosette even _is,_ and only stares at her, her mouth closed into an unhappy line.

“I had - I had a crisis, hadn’t I?” Grantaire asks, feeling hollow.

“Yes,” Enjolras says and, after an hesitation she adds: “I thought this wasn’t supposed to happen anymore if we saw each other regularly.”

“I thought so too,” Grantaire admits quietly. Anxiety is rising up in her throat. She’d like Enjolras to put her fingers into her hair again, but what good would it really do? “They say - every story, they say, once your Anchor is by your side…”

“That’s the thing,” someone cuts her. “You’ll feel okay _as long as your Anchor is by your side._ I’m afraid it’s quite literal.”

Enjolras and Grantaire startle both. It’s only once she has to raise her head that Grantaire realizes that she was still laying on Enjolras’ lap, and she blushes, straightening up immediately. The girl who just spoke is standing in the living-room; she has pale blue hair and an old _rolling stones_ tee-shirt. Grantaire knows her, she thinks.

“Do I know you?” she asks, at the same time as Enjolras says: “Does this mean Grantaire has to be near me at _all times_?”

The girl smiles at Grantaire briefly, but it’s Enjolras’ question she answers, which - is probably logical. It’s a good, terrifying question, and Grantaire should have probably think about it first.

“It means that if Grantaire was with you at every hour of every day, she’d probably never have a crisis in her life again, yes. But my grandma always said, having the Gift shouldn’t mean having to hold your Anchor’s hand all the time. Being a phone call away if she starts feeling bad and making sure you don’t stay away from each other for a long time is good enough.”

Grantaire glances at Enjolras, who’s staring pensively at her hands. She feels her heart clench in her chest.

“I know it’s asking a lot of you,” she says, her voice sounding off even to herself. “Especially for something you don’t -”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts her with a roll of her eyes. “I am not thinking of giving up on you, or whatever you’re imagining.”

“Oh,” Grantaire mutters, and then clears her throat, trying to sound more casual. “What were you thinking about then?”

“We need a better system,” Enjolras says firmly. “ _And_ you need to stop being scared of calling me if you don’t feel well. There won’t always be someone around understanding your situation. You got lucky, but this can’t be allowed to happen again.”

Grantaire stares at Enjolras, her pursed lips and tensed shoulders, and she’s struck by an absurd thought:

“You’re not feeling guilty about this, are you? Because clearly, if anybody’s at fault, it’s me.”

She’s not surprised she didn’t call Enjolras, but her Anchor is right - she’s been lucky. She can’t afford to be too stubborn, or proud, or anxious to call her. She _thought_ she was free of those crisis, and the simple idea that she’s not, that the threat is actually going to loom over her head until the day she dies, well, it’s terrifying.

Sometimes, she hates her Gift so much. Why is it even call a Gift? Most of the time, she isn’t even able to make people happy with all the knowledge she has. The true Gift would probably be to get rid of this, although she has no idea what she would do without it.

“You were - _are_ \- sick,” Enjolras says, frowning again. “You -”

“I’m perfectly able to make a _phone call,_ Enjolras,” Grantaire cuts her, a bit annoyed that Enjolras is suddenly treating her like a fragile flower made of glass. “I didn’t, so, shame on me.”

“But it’s bigger than that,” Enjolras insists. “I should have -”

“Um, you probably don’t want my opinion, but I don’t think the discussion here should be about who to blame,” the girl pipes up. She hastily raises her hands when Grantaire and Enjolras turn to look at her again. “I’m just saying! You guys have a whole life of being together to figure out, why not just be happy that I was here this particular time?”

“We are happy,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire has to bite her lips not to smile foolishly at the _we._ “And grateful.”

“Nice,” the girl grins. “Well then - I didn’t mean to stop and chat, actually, I already said goodbye to your friends, but I should get going, I mean, I’m glad I could help, but I’m supposed to meet that guy in, like, an hour, and I had planned on buying something new and fancy, but now he’ll just have to settle with some of my old dresses. I mean, he’s a banker, it’s impressive, but -”

“You won’t miss anything if you don’t go see him, Flo,” Grantaire says without thinking.

The girl - Flo, _Floréal,_ Grantaire’s mind whispers - blinks, surprised, and then her smile turns into a disappointed pout.

“Really?” she asks. “He’s a _banker.”_

“That doesn’t make him a good person,” Enjolras points out.

“It’s not that,” Grantaire says, waving her hand in the air, and staring at Floréal a bit more attentively. “He’s just - he’s just, dull, and not for you, and you’re going to get bored in less than a month and -”

She can only see Floréal now, except she’s not in Enjolras’ living-room anymore but in her own little studio, and she’s crying and tearing a large file with her bare hands. She’s muttering something under her breath - Grantaire’s not sure, but she thinks she can make out _“stupid, stupid Floréal, still believing in fairytales.”_ She wishes she could see something happier, she _wants_ to see something happier, for Floréal’s sake, but she barely has the time to witness a somewhat familiar café, and Floréal staring at a red-headed girl, before she feels fingers brushing against her arm, and she’s back into the present with a slightly disorientated blink.

“Huh,” she says, clearing her throat. “Not for you. This guy.”

“Oh,” Floréal mutters. “Did you see something… else?” she asks a bit more hopefully.

“Didn’t have the time,” she says, glancing pointedly at Enjolras, who looks a bit offended (Grantaire doesn’t want to find it adorable, but it’s an expression she hadn’t seen yet and, _it’s terribly adorable)._

“You looked far away again,” she says (It rings familiar, Grantaire thinks, but she can’t place it). “I didn’t want to take any risk -”

“It’s just my natural Seeing expression,” Grantaire says helpfully. “I’m pretty much always looking out of it, but really, you don’t have to worry until I start talking about - about burning.”

Her voice flatters slightly at the end, but she doesn’t want Enjolras to pester her about this, doesn’t want to have to think about the darkness, and so she gets on her feet, quickly, and stretch her hands to Floréal.

“Do you want me to look? I mean, you basically save my mind, it’s the least I can do.”

Floréal barely hesitates before putting her fingers into Grantaire’s open palms, a small, delighted grin on her lips.

“I haven’t actually done this with anyone since my grandma died,” she says. “Mostly because so many Seers are just scams, you know? And I didn’t want to tarnish her memory, anyway, I guess I just wanted -”

Her words fade away for Grantaire’s ears, and it doesn’t take long until they’re in that little café again. Floréal is sitting alone at her table, with a book, but she keeps glancing at a small red-headed woman who’s got her hands on her hips and is screaming at some guy that she’s going to cut his balls off if he keeps annoying her. It doesn’t take too long for the guy to go - the small woman looks scarily sincere. Floréal looks at her openly as the woman sits down again.

“You’re scary,” she says.

The woman looks at her, surprised for less than a second, and then she smirks: “You’re blunt,” she says, mimicking Floréal’s voice. “Cute, too.”

“A baby?” The very same woman asks a moment later, and some years must have passed, because she’s sitting on a large bed now, in her underwear, and there’s a ring around her neck. Floreal, who’s lying next to her, her hair no longer blue, shrugs awkwardly.

“I’ve always wanted kids,” she says. “What d’you think?”

The vision changes again, and Floréal and her partner - Irma, she’s Irma - are whispering angrily at each other while a little child is sleeping on the couch. Grantaire blinks, and then Floréal is in a garden, shaking with exhaustion. Another blink, and then Floréal and Irma are together again, but they’re laughing, and two kids are curled up on their sides. And then Floréal is dancing with someone. And then she’s old, and holding the hand of a small girl, and - _enough,_ Grantaire thinks. _I’ve seen enough._

She stumbles backwards, and then she’s back into the present, which she knows because Enjolras’ hands are on her shoulders. She instinctively leans into the touch, and then she smiles at Floréal, who’s trying very hard not to look too eager.

“It’s great, it’s gonna be great,” she says, trying to chose what to tell and what to keep to herself (she’s got the _choice._ Being so close to Enjolras is wonderful). “You’re gonna meet her soon, and you’re both going to be very happy. Two kids too, and at least one granddaughter.”

“ _Her?_ ” Floréal repeats, startled. She frowns, then shake her head. “Nevermind this is - this is good, but can you tell me - when? Or where? Because, I mean, if this is in a year or two, I can still go out with André -”

“I don’t think you’ll have to wait a year,” Grantaire says. “But you’re going to meet her in a café - I think it’s in _le café Le Troubadour,_ in _le cinquième arrondissement_? It’ll be in the evening, it was rather dark outside.”

Floréal’s delighted smile is quick to come back on her lips.

“I go there all the time,” she laughs. “I mean, not _all the time,_ but I know a barista here, a real sweetheart, we went to school together, and it’s not so far from my place. So, d’you think I should actually call André and ditch him right now?”

“I… don’t know,” Grantaire says, frowning. “I mean, you can, but if it doesn’t work out well, don’t be too sad I guess? Then again, it’s probably an experience you should live before -”

“Um, Grantaire?” calls a voice from the kitchen.

Grantaire raises her eyes. Courfeyrac pops up with an uneasy grin and a phone on her hand.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says. “I’ve tried to hold off as long as I could but, um, Musichetta wants to speak with you?”

Grantaire tenses involuntarily. Enjolras immediately tightens her grip on her, which she takes as a sort of awkward tentative of comfort, or support, and although it’s welcomed, and definitely pleasant, it cannot help Grantaire at all.

“Musichetta?” she repeats, grimacing. “Not Joly or Bossuet?”

“”I’m afraid so,” Courfeyrac answers, and then, into the phone: “Sure, Musichetta, she can talk now.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire says, looking at the phone like it’s going to burn her when Courfeyrac gives it to her. She glances at Floréal: “Um, this might not be pleasant -”

“It’s okay,” Floréal says with a grin. “I’m going to go now. Living an experience, I guess. Good luck?” she adds, raising her thumbs.

“Yeah…” Grantaire takes a deep breath, and puts the phone on her ear. “Hi, Chetta. How are you?”

“R,” Chetta answers immediately, her voice terribly sweet. “How are _you,_ honey? Courfeyrac told me you fainted.”

Grantaire frowns at Courfeyrac’s back, even if the girl cannot see it as she’s accompanying Floréal to the door, the both of them chatting excitedly on their way.

“I’m okay,” she says. “I’m with Enjolras, so there’s no risk of anything bad happening, really.”

“Well, that’s good,” Chetta says. “Now want to tell me what’s our _first rule_ is once more, R?”

“You sound like a school teacher,” Grantaire whines, perfectly aware that she’s playing the role of the punished student. “Always tell someone as soon as I feel bad or odd, and the place I’m at at the moment.” she mutters anyway when Musichetta stays dangerously silent.

“That’s right,” Musichetta says. “One rule, Grantaire! You hung up on Bossuet, you sent only two words to Joly, and then you _disappeared,_ and _then_ we learnt from Courfeyrac that you arrived at their flat a moment before and fainted right into Enjolras’ arms!” the tone of her voice gets increasingly louder, and she’s soon screaming into Grantaire’s ears: “Do you even know how _worried_ we were? I know you’ve got Enjolras now, and I’m very glad, but you can’t leave us without any news!”

“Chetta,” Grantaire says, subdued. Her fingers instinctively search for Enjolras’, and she smiles a little when they found them. “Chetta, I’m _sorry,_ you know I didn’t mean to worry you. I don’t - I can’t remember exactly what happened,” she adds, wincing. “But I’m sorry I didn’t call, or tell you where I was - even though, chances are, I didn’t know at the time.”

“You’re not helping your case,” Musichetta growls, but it seems like the worst of her anger has passed already, which surprised Grantaire just a bit. It usually takes longer for her friend to calm down.

“Will it be better if I come home and cuddle the three of you properly?” Grantaire asks after clearing her throat.

“You’re not coming home,” Musichetta says firmly.

“What?” Grantaire exclaims. “Are you keeping me out of my own home? i’m pretty sure you can’t do that, Chetta, even if you’re mad at me -”

“I’m not mad,” Musichetta sighs, “I’ve just talked with both Joly and Combeferre, and they think it would be best if you spent the night with Enjolras, just to be sure.”

Grantaire is stunned into silence, and gapes at the phone, outraged, before turning on her heels to be face to face to Enjolras again. Enjolras raises an eyebrow, clearly not understanding what’s wrong. Oh god, Grantaire thinks, they didn’t even _tell_ Enjolras -

“That’s a _terrible_ idea,” she says on the phone. “You didn’t even _ask_ her. Joly and Combeferre have absolutely no right to just decide stuff like this! I’m going home.”

“Honey, Combeferre will only have to say to Enjolras that it’s not safe enough for you and Enjolras will keep you there in a heartbeat,” Musichetta points out wryly, but her voice softens afterwards: “I’m sure everything will go perfectly well. Stay safe for us, R, we’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

“Wait,” Grantaire says, starting to panic a little. “The shop! We need to talk about the shop! The money! It’s important!”

“Tomorrow,” Musichetta repeats. “We love you, honey.”

“I -” starts Grantaire, helpless, but the line goes dead before she can finish, and she just stares at Enjolras, who’s frowning again. Grantaire wishes Enjolras never frowned, especially not because of her.

“Is everything okay?” Enjolras asks gently.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. “Well, no. Well - Is Combeferre even _here?_ ”

“She’s been in the kitchen this whole time,” Courfeyrac says behind her, making her startle again. She turns her head to glare at her, but Courfeyrac only grins: “We wanted to give you a bit of privacy, so we stayed hidden.”

“Yes,” Enjolras snorts. “It was purely for _our_ benefit, I’m sure.”

There’s nothing but fondness in her tone, which makes Courfeyrac’s scandalized face even more ridiculous than it already is. Grantaire still thinks that she shouldn’t stay here more than necessary, but she loves to see Enjolras with her best friends, and she’s a bit too busy staring at the easy way Enjolras banters with them to protest when Courfeyrac calls her girlfriend to help her _“defend their honour”_ and Combeferre replies dryly: _“Well, dinner’s ready, just brings them at the table and we’ll settle this peacefully over chicken.”_

For about two minutes, Grantaire wonders if this is going to be awkward; she doesn’t belong here, in the middle of such familiarity. Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras have obviously a routine, and Grantaire has no idea what it is, can’t even rely on her Gift to help her, because Enjolras keeps touching her; all the touches are always brief and small and soft, but Grantaire is acutely aware of every single one of them, and her skin feels warmer in the places Enjolras’ fingers brush against. It makes her flush, and she thinks she should leave before she makes this terribly uncomfortable for everybody, but Courfeyrac puts the salad on the table alongside the chicken and asks Grantaire about the shop, and before she knows it, she’s explaining her problems of money to her three very interested hosts.

“Anyway,” she concludes after her while, clearing her throat and trying not to look too embarrassed. “The point is, the whole thing made me lose tons of clients. I don’t have a very good reputation anymore, people don’t like it when you tell them uncomfortable truths. And, without clients, there’s not much I can do to pay the rent of the shop.”

“Huh,” Combeferre says. “So what you would need right now, in fact, is publicity?”

“That… would be a good start,” Grantaire says, a bit confused by the way Combeferre smiles at Courfeyrac and Enjolras.

“ _Oh,”_ Courfeyrac grins, her eyes lightening up, and she looks at Enjolras who nods mysteriously, her own lips curled up with amusement.

“What?” Grantaire asks, feeling truly left out for the first time since the beginning of the meal.

“Did Enjolras tell you yet about that time we managed to make more than sixty people come to one of our meeting?” Courfeyrac says, ignoring her question.

“No?” Grantaire answers, curious despite herself.

“It’s the best story! Now, I thought Louison was going to _kill_ us, but, it was awesome, really. Basically, what we did was this -”

By the time they’ve finished the dessert, Grantaire is laughing loudly, almost reduced to tears, and she’s forgotten all about her fears of imposing herself. It’s hard not to, with Courfeyrac leading the conversation; she’s such warm, welcoming person, and her easy friendliness seems to radiate all around the table. Combeferre and Enjolras, of course, are as charming as her in their own way, one so gentle and the other so intense, and Grantaire thinks she has never met three people as beautiful as they are together.

Even Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta have a different dynamic, but perhaps it’s because Grantaire has always been right in the middle of it that she can’t completely see their beauty like she does with Enjolras and her best friends.

That last thought brings her back to the present, and she glances at her clock on the wall before cursing.

“What is it?” Enjolras asks immediately.

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” she says with what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “It’s just that I need to go now, otherwise I’m not sure how safe I’ll be alone in the metro.”

It’s actually almost too late already; it’s so dark outside.

“Non sense,” Courfeyrac says, “you’re sleeping here.”

Grantaire blushes. “No, I’m not.”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says, sounding oh so reasonable. “I’m sorry if this isn’t an ideal situation for you, but you’ve got to admit that we are all walking blind with this, including you. You had a rough afternoon, and what we know as _fact,_ it’s that Enjolras makes it better for you. It makes sense that you stay with her, at least tonight, just to be safe.”

“I guess,” Grantaire admits reluctantly. “But I -” she stops then, rewinding Combeferre’s words. “Wait, what do you mean by _stay with her_?”

“She means you’re sleeping with me,” Enjolras answers, and when Grantaire looks at her, probably with wide, horrified eyes, she hastily adds: “Not like _that._ Obviously. I simply meant, in my bed.”

“That’s insane,” Grantaire protests with a high-pitched voice. “What the hell. The couch is fine, isn’t it?”

“If we are in the same bed, it will be easier for me to calm you down,” Enjolras explains, but, oh, Grantaire did it again - she’s frowning. “But if it’s making you that uncomfortable, of course you can -”

“Me?” Grantaire cuts her with a disbelieving laugh. “Uncomfortable? What about _you?_ You don’t seem like the kind of person who agrees to let a nearly stranger sleep in her bed. As a matter of fact, you don’t seem like the kind of person who lets _anybody_ sleep in her bed.”

“Well, I do, for friends,” Enjolras says, and fuck, she sounds… _hurt,_ and Grantaire feels suddenly awful. “I thought we _were_ friends now.”

“We are,” Grantaire says, suddenly awkward. “I just, I don’t want you to feel, _obligated_ in any way -”

“I’m not,” Enjolras assures her quickly. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this otherwise. Are you sure it’s not bothering _you?_ ”

Grantaire can only shakes her head, pretty sure her cheeks are burning. They stare at each other for a moment, until Combeferre delicately clears her throat.

“Maybe you should show her the bathroom, Enjolras?” she suggests.

“Of course,” Enjolras says immediately. “This way, Grantaire.”

Grantaire doesn’t stay in the bathroom long. She’s too scared of losing her nerves while looking at herself in the mirror and ending up sleeping in the bathtub or something. When she gets out, she manages to wish goodnight to both Combeferre and Courfeyrac without her voice betraying her nervosity too much and then she follows Enjolras and steps into her bedroom for the first time.

In reality.

She knows that untidy bed, and that desk full of papers and books and pens without caps. She’s terribly familiar with that carpet, she knows how soft it is underneath naked feet or knees. She’s looked at the famous painted quotes on the right side of the room before, and she can’t help but grin; she feels at home.

Perhaps this is why she doesn’t wait for Enjolras to tell her to pick some clothes to sleep in. She knows Enjolras was going to say it anyway. She opens a drawer without thinking, and her grin widens when she sees her favourite tee-shirt - well, not _hers,_ but the one she remembers wearing a lot in this room in her visions when she was younger. It’s a large, red thing that falls on her shoulders but is just the tiniest bit tight on her chest. Grantaire adores it. She has no trouble finding the black pants that go with it (although those, in her visions, she’s worn only once or twice).

She’s actually started to undress when Enjolras asks:

“You’re going to come here a lot, in the Future, aren’t you?”

Grantaire freezes, and glances at Enjolras. Enjolras is staring at her, her eyes firmly fixed on her face, which, ironically enough, reminds Grantaire that she’s only in the black pants and her bra right now. She blushes hard, hastily puts the red tee-shirt on, and then, she actually registers what Enjolras has just asked.

She asked about the Future. _Their_ Future. With no mockery whatsoever in her tone.

This is the first time in two weeks that Enjolras has asked anything that could imply that she actually… That she’s actually ready to believe in Grantaire’s Gift. Grantaire feels elated. Terrified, too. What is she even supposed to say? Yes? We are going to have so much fun in this room? I am more or less going to move in here at some point? You are going to do delicious things to me in this bed?

She takes a short breath, fiddling with the tee-shirt, and then, carefully, she answers:

“If the Future doesn’t change… Yes. I will.”

She expects Enjolras to say something, anything, but instead she stays silent, looking at Grantaire with the same pensive and intense look she gave her before. It sends a shiver down Grantaire’s spine. She likes and dreads that look on Enjolras’ face. It means that Enjolras is _having ideas,_ and Grantaire hopes they’re good ones.

She doesn’t dare ask about them though, and she just waits a moment, nervous, impatient, _eager,_ wishing she could see what is on Enjolras’ mind. When Enjolras finally blinks and comes back to reality however, it’s only to say: _let’s go to bed. You must be tired._

Grantaire isn’t tired, but she gets under the covers all the same, and tries without success to relax once Enjolras has turned off the light. She can _feel_ her warmth next to her, the sensation as tangible as the softness of the pillow underneath her cheek. Grantaire wants to turn around and to bask in it. Actually, no - she wants to get even closer. She wants to feel Enjolras’ arms around her again, she wants to bury her face into Enjolras’ neck and breathes in all of her. She wants it all, which is why she allows herself nothing and curls up at the extremity of the bed, her fingers clenching the blanket.

She closes her eyes, and tries to lull herself to sleep by listening to Enjolras’ breathing. Instead, the room is suddenly full of light again, and she blinks, realizing that she’s standing again. Enjolras is in the bed, and smiling at her. She’s also naked, and Grantaire can’t help but gasp.

“That wasn’t the plan,” she says, not truly protesting.

“I can assure you that you’re going to like the new one,” Enjolras says, amused. “Come here.”

“I got _dressed,_ ” she smiles but she moves towards the bed again.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras sighs, her hand brushing her arm, and the world is black again. Grantaire bites her lips, torn between joy (it’s _back._ Their future is back, _her Enjolras_ is back) and shame (she’s aroused; it feels wrong, here and now). Instead, she carefully turns on her back again, and whispers:

“What?”

“Please stop thinking that you are bothering me,” Enjolras mutters.

Grantaire hadn’t expected that. She glances to Enjolras’ side, even though she can only make out her silhouette.

“I’ll… Try?” she says, uncertain.

“Good,” Enjolras says, and then her hand moves again, sliding along Grantaire’s forearm until their fingers meet and Enjolras intertwines them together. Grantaire hesitates for a second, and then she gets on her side, and nuzzles gently Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Goodnight, R,” Enjolras says softly, squeezing her fingers.

“Goodnight Enjolras,” Grantaire says back, and finally relaxes.

 

*

 

It takes another two weeks for Grantaire to finally understand what Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras had started to plan during that fateful dinner _without even properly talking_.

She knew, distantly, that the three of them were on pretty much the same level of telepathy that Joly and Bossuet. It’s in the way they move seamlessly together, like they’re instinctively aware of what the two others are doing, thinking, and planning at every moment. But for all her observation (and, Grantaire thinks without guilt, she does observe them _a lot,_ if only because Enjolras is rarely without her best friends during meetings and afterwards), Grantaire had somehow managed to miss the fact that they had decided to help her without her knowing and enrolled all of their friends into this.

New people have been coming to the shop regularly those past few days already, but Grantaire didn’t have time to question it, trying her very best not to get lost into the visions of each one of them. It helps that Enjolras has never failed to answer her tired calls yet, and agreed to meet her at absurd times of the day just to hold her hand for a moment. Grantaire lives for those quiet moments together. She wonders what would happen if she called Enjolras once just because she wants to, not because she feels like she’s going to drown without her touch. Would Enjolras even come? And even if she did - Grantaire would probably be too busy being nervous and overthinking everything to properly enjoy it.

Maybe it’s because Grantaire has been day-dreaming about doing more than holding Enjolras’ hands all evening that she doesn’t realize exactly what Enjolras has just said before Bahorel shakes her arm with a wide grin. When the words finally register, and that she sees the proud glint in Combeferre, Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s eyes, it finally comes down to her that she’s been shamefully _tricked._

She’d be impressed, except she’s too busy being stunned, staring at three leaders of ABC and trying to resist the urge to pinch herself to be sure she’s not having a vision right now.

“Everybody helped with the first wave of people,” Enjolras says directly to her. “But we didn’t want to do more without your explicit permission. We need to make sure you can handle more clients, you’ve been tired a lot, lately.”

“I -” Grantaire starts, and then looks around her, only to see a vague of friendly and amused smiles; they’re the most unsubtle bunch of people she has ever met, emotions are written right there on their face, fuck. “How the hell did I _miss_ this?” she asks out loud.

“Well, you’re not the most observant of Seers, for starters,” Bossuet points out with a grin.

“And Enjolras has been very good at distracting you, hasn’t she?” Courfeyrac adds teasingly.

Grantaire only _wishes_ she could blush as delicately as Enjolras does; Enjolras’ cheeks color just the slightest of pink as she scowls at Courfeyrac, while Grantaire can feel all of her face burning with embarrassment. She knows her feelings for Enjolras are certainly obvious to everybody, but she wishes people wouldn’t talk about them in front of Enjolras herself. She wants their future, cannot wait for it to happen, but she would hate for Enjolras to feel _pressured_ into loving Grantaire. She already had to acclimate her life so fast to be her Anchor despite not even believing in all of this. She will be Grantaire’s girlfriend, one day - if the future doesn’t change yet again - but Grantaire is going to let her all the time in the world to decide that she _wants_ it.

“We’re getting off the subject,” Enjolras says pointedly to Courfeyrac before looking intensely at Grantaire again. “Are you too tired, R? We can still wait before going to the next part of the plan. And don’t worry about money, please - if you still don’t have enough clients to pay the rent this month, we will all happily help you. ”

“You can’t - you can’t _do that,_ ” Grantaire says, taken aback again. “You’ve got, you’ve got projects and big plans and… stuff.”

“We’re not doing this as ABC,” Combeferre says gently. “Which is why there’s only the ten of us today. We’re doing it as your friends.”

Grantaire feels like she’s going to cry, so she smiles broadly instead, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I didn’t know I had so many rich friends. Someone should have told me earlier, I would have asked you to pay me holidays or something.”

“ _Grantaire,”_ Joly and Bossuet sigh at the same time.

“What?” she says, a little bit too loud. “If my friends are paying me for my job, it’s not _unreasonable_ to ask that they pay for a week near the sea, or something. I mean, -”

“R,” Enjolras cuts her firmly, and Grantaire can’t help but look at her again, cursing herself for making her clearly unhappy _yet again_. “This is not _pity._ We want to do this for you because we all like you and want you to succeed. Please do not mock that.”

Grantaire blushes again, feeling chastened.

“I can do it,” she says more seriously. “If you find people, I can do it, I guess. But I might - I might call you more. And you’re starting school again, soon, it’s bound to get difficult.”

“We can do it,” Enjolras says, her lips curling up again.

Grantaire smiles back without thinking.

“Wonderful!” Courfeyrac exclaims happily. “Operation Publicity, part two is now officially engaged! Enjolras?”

_Operation Publicity?_ Grantaire repeats lowly, but nobody pays attention to her. In a few succinct words, Enjolras starts giving out tasks to all of their friends, and soon Bahorel, Joly, Jehan and Marius are in a corner, whispering together and looking like they’re plotting the assassination of someone, Feuilly gets her computer out and is joined by Bossuet, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and Grantaire is left alone at her table, clinging at her beer and wondering if she should go help somebody or if she’s supposed to stay completely out of it, never mind the fact that it concerns _her_ shop. Before she can get angry about Enjolras not to giving her anything to do, however, Enjolras comes to her and sits at her side.

“I was hoping we could go over your schedule together,” she says immediately, getting some paper and a pen out of her bag.

“My schedule?” Grantaire asks, confused.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “How many hours do you usually make in a day? How many people can you see? We asked Bossuet, but obviously nobody knows your mind better than yourself. Everybody wants to help, but none of us have your job, either. We don’t want to send you _too_ many people at once.”

Grantaire has to touch Enjolras’ arm, just to be sure, but Enjolras doesn’t disappear, just keeps staring at her determinedly, her pen ready, and she feels her heart flutter in her chest.

“I haven’t had normal hours in months,” she says finally after clearing her throat and turning down the overwhelming emotions growing in her stomach. “I guess - when I started, I did office hours, basically? Eight to twelve in the morning, then two to seven the afternoon.”

“Could you do it _now_?” Enjolras asks seriously.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire answers with a shrug. “I guess I’d have to try? With you not too far, ideally.”

“We should do this gradually,” Enjolras says with a pensive frown. “How many people could you theoretically see during those hours?”

“...Ten?” Grantaire ventures. “Maybe more,” she adds, uncertain, when Enjolras glances at her again.

“We should start with less,” Enjolras decides after a moment of silence. “Seven, or eight per day, perhaps, and I would come to pick you up at the end of the day, just to be sure you’re alright. And then, if it works, we’ll send you more people to work with. We’ll have to see how much we’ll be able to meet once university starts again, too - “

Grantaire keeps hearing the words coming out of her mouth, but she stops _listening_ to the meaning behind them. She simply looks at Enjolras with awe, feeling like she’s going to burst with adoration. She’s loved the fire into Enjolras’ soul since she saw it for the first time as a little girl, and she’s been falling in love with how _dedicated_ Enjolras is to anything that truly matters to her since she properly met her, but this is something quite different now, because Enjolras is doing all of this for something she doesn’t even care about. And yet there is no mistaking her tone as anything else than _passionate,_ and Grantaire thinks that it might actually be for her, _just for her,_ and she has no idea what to even do with this.

“- R? Grantaire, I’m touching you, are you okay?”

Grantaire blinks and comes back to reality. She glances down at her wrist, and doesn’t know if she should smile at the way Enjolras is holding her wrist, like she’s actually afraid to let go.

“Enjolras,” she says, looking up to her. “Why are you doing this?”

Enjolras looks slightly taken aback.

“We told you,” she answers. “You’re our friend. Are you still doubting that?”

“No, no,” Grantaire shakes her head. “I mean, _why are you doing this?_ Caring for me because you consider me a friend, I can believe that. But doing all of this for the shop? You _scorn_ my job. You don’t believe in this! You don’t believe in my Gift, you don’t believe that I’m actually seeing the people’s future, you think this is all a scam!”

Enjolras stares at Grantaire for a very long moment in silence, her lips pursed into very fine line. Grantaire wonders if she went to far, thinks about apologizing, even though she’s pretty sure she’s only told the truth, but then Enjolras’ grip on her wrist tightens and she says, calmly:

“I changed my mind weeks ago, R. I do believe in this, in your gift. It’s hard not to when faced with so much evidence.”

Grantaire freezes, heart pounding fast in her chest, and hastily searches for a clue that Enjolras might be lying - it’s absurd, Enjolras has been nothing but honest since they’ve talked for the first time, but she needs to make _sure…_ Enjolras doesn’t take her eyes off her; she looks sure of herself, she looks _determined,_ all over again, she looks like she’s silently willing for Grantaire to believe her and Grantaire -

Grantaire does.

She feels breathless, agitated, overjoyed. She feels like if she doesn’t do something, she’s going to explode. Enjolras is still waiting patiently, but her gaze is progressively softening, and in that very instant, she looks exactly like the Enjolras Grantaire has seen since she was eight. Grantaire smiles helplessly and then, without thinking, she leans in, and kisses Enjolras firmly on the lips.

It’s a brief kiss, as far as kisses go. She barely allows herself to feel Enjolras’ mouth against her before moving back to her place, her cheeks flushed and her breathing uneven.

“Oh,” says Enjolras softly.

The small word is enough for Grantaire to realize what’s just happened, and it doesn’t take more than a few seconds until she starts panicking. What has she done? This wasn’t the plan, this was never the plan, the plan was to let Enjolras decide whether she wanted to kiss her _by herself,_ and now Enjolras is going to be _influenced,_ and, _“oh”,_ what does that even mean, _oh_? Is Enjolras disgusted? Angry? Sad? Or just confused, perhaps?

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispers, and puts her hand on Grantaire’s cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire stammers.

“You don’t have to be,” Enjolras says calmly.

She’s the one who gets closer this time. She’s the one who presses her mouth against Grantaire’s, and, unlike Grantaire, she doesn’t move away quickly; she kisses her like she wants to explore a new territory, careful but excited, and she smiles when Grantaire half-opens her lips for her, as if she knows already how easy it would be to just claim all of Grantaire as hers. The hand on her cheek moves to her hair, and Grantaire gasps when Enjolras pulls on it gently, grabbing Enjolras’ shoulder in return.

For a moment, Grantaire feels like she’s floating, and Enjolras is the only thing that anchors her to reality, which is rather apt. Unfortunately, forgetting about the rest of the world doesn’t mean that the world forgets about her, and she’s brought back abruptly from the lovely place where she cared for nothing except Enjolras by somebody whistling loudly.

“Shhh,” someone says, but it’s too late.

Grantaire breaks the kiss, horrified by herself, and hates the way Enjolras’ smile grows uncertain before disappearing completely. She wants to kiss her again, and knows she _can’t,_ and her own stupidity nearly makes her cry. Instead, she gets up hastily.

“R?” Enjolras says, frowning.

“I need to go,” Grantaire manages to say despite the lump in her throat. “I need - fuck. Far away. I need to go far away. Goodnight.”

She moves too fast for Enjolras to stop her, and she refuses to turn around even as she calls her name again. She’s pretty sure some of her other friends join her, but she ignores it as she runs out of the backroom and gets down the stairs quickly as she can. She feels sick. She feels _montruous._ How could she?

She promised herself that she wouldn’t do anything to influence Enjolras. She promised herself she would let her make that choice _on her own._ But she couldn’t do even that, could she? It wasn’t enough to force Enjolras to accept her in her life, she had to make her believe - Enjolras wasn’t supposed to _know,_ but Grantaire has been stupid, so _stupid,_ and now Enjolras probably thinks that - that she’s doing the _right thing_ or something. That she’s doing exactly what is _expected_ of her.

When she’s in the street, Grantaire has to abruptly stop, feeling like she’s going to be physically ill. She ends up barely standing against the wall, shaking, and hides her face into her hands, breathing hard and trying not to cry. She has no right to, after all. _She_ made the mistake. She kissed Enjolras. She ruined everything.

“Fuck,” she whispers against her palms, “fuck, fuck, FUCK.”

“Grantaire?” Enjolras calls hesitantly.

“Fuck,” Grantaire repeats, and then looks through her fingers. “Tell me this is a vision, please.”

“It’s not,” Enjolras answers and then walks up to her, carefully letting her fingers brush against Grantaire’s elbows. Grantaire takes a sharp breath. “Are you okay?” Enjolras asks. “I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Grantaire says, aware that she sounds hysterical. “Why the fuck for?”

“Because I clearly made you uncomfortable,” Enjolras says unhappily. “I thought - I thought this was what you wanted.”

Grantaire can’t help it; she laughs, sounding desperate to her own ears.

“Of course that’s what I want,” she says finally. “I wanted this before I even met you, Enjolras. I grew up with visions of us being so _happy_ together. And then I met you and you turned out to beeven more wonderful that I could ever imagine and I’m _so in love with you_ but the thing is. The thing is, you’re not. Not yet. Maybe not ever, now. I - I pressured you into this, and I think I’ve been doing that too much already, for everything else, but not this, I won’t -” Grantaire’s voice falters, and she only realizes she started crying when she presses her fingers against her eyelids. “ _I’m_ sorry, Enjolras. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want this.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says quietly, “you promised me you wouldn’t think like that anymore.”

“This is far bigger than _not bothering you,_ ” Grantaire retorts bitterly. “This is about me coercing you into a romantic relationship with me!”

Enjolras doesn’t answer immediately. For a brief second, Grantaire hopes she’s going to leave, but instead, she feels her hands gently taking hers to pull them away from her face, and even though she would like to keep avoiding her gaze, it’s always been hard to look away from Enjolras.

“Do I look like someone who’s getting coerced into doing anything, R?” she asks calmly.

“Well, no,” Grantaire admits reluctantly, because it’s hard to imagine Enjolras _coerced_ when she’s looking so in control right now. “But you _kissed me_. Are you going to say you didn’t do it because I kissed you first?”

“I won’t,” Enjolras says. “But it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have kissed you sooner or later either. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, now. You kissing me first just confirmed you felt the same way I did.”

“What?” Grantaire says weakly. “No. You don’t -”

“Could you _stop_ telling me what I’m thinking, R, please?” Enjolras cuts her with a roll of her eyes. She intertwines their fingers together, takes a step forward and whispers: “Please, trust me to know what _I_ feel.”

Grantaire feels like Enjolras’ eyes are piercing right into her mind, and her heart stops beating for a second. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out, and she ends up nodding feebly. Enjolras smiles, and then she lowers her head until their noses are brushing against each other.

“I love you,” Enjolras says softly. “This is real. You didn’t force anything on me. _I love you._ ”

Grantaire’s lips curl up again until she’s beaming, overwhelmed: “I am so in love with you,” she repeats.

“Good,” Enjolras says, her grin widening too. “Can I kiss you, now?”

Grantaire’s sole answer is to get on her tiptoes and kiss Enjolras herself.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you guys liked it, I might write an epilogue at some point later on??
> 
> Otherwise, feel free to come say hello on my [ Tumblr! ](http://somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com)


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